


Something of Our Own

by marblesharp



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Canon Compliant, Explicit Language, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Mild Sexual Content, Post-Mockingjay, Reconstruction, Romance, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-23
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-24 10:59:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 41,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/939185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marblesharp/pseuds/marblesharp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hazelle wants to rebuild, Haymitch tries not to tear everything down, and there are embers in ashes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Self-Rehiring

**Author's Note:**

> The rating will change in future chapters but it'll be a while before things get 'mature'. Many thanks to my betas, Estoma and Deathmallow! I own nothing.

With its darkness and collateral nightmares, he dreads sleep.

The act of slipping into sleep, with or without the aid of alcohol, is the most distressing thing Haymitch can imagine besides the Hunger Games. Any day or week or month now, the reaping day will be somberly acknowledged and not practiced. He plans to avoid all the commemorating pomp - if he hasn't missed the big day already. Haymitch survived the Second Quell and too many reaping days and a war, and somewhere amid all of that sleep became his personal hell. He doesn't need to remember anything; he needs to forget.

His nightmares are recreations of the memories rotting inside his subconscious, and over the years he's learned he has quite a dark imagination. Reality may be another kind of nightmare but sleep is a trap, keeping him locked in a shadowy place where his demons come out to play and all his faults are laid before him like reaping slips.

Alcohol doesn't reconcile him much. It numbs his transition into sleep, the most basic human necessity that he barely fulfills. Gone are the days where lying down, all cozy in bed long enough was sufficient to fall asleep. Now he can either drink himself into a stupor or delay sleep until daylight, though that only ensures a few erratic hours laced with the anxiety of when he'll startle awake, slashing the air with his knife.

Perhaps the problem is that he always awakens.

As long as Haymitch isn't aware of himself, his life, or the memories that torment him, he's content. Unfortunately, Haymitch is all too aware. It's been years since he dreamt of something pleasant or even contentedly nothing at all. The only solution may very well be death but he has two too many people to look after for that.

Not that he hasn't considered it - Haymitch just tries not to linger on those kinds of thoughts. Succumbing to the hardships of his life means succumbing to the Capitol, and Haymitch didn't help win a damn revolution to die that generously. Instead, he drinks until Peeta, Katniss, or Sae make him eat, bathe, talk. Instead, he drinks the entire day and into the night until he _has_ to fall asleep.

Right now, he's very, very close to falling asleep.

But then a goose honks too close to his face, and he practically leaps over the side of the couch.

The sound familiar enough that he doesn't stab the bird, he screws his eyes shut and groans from the floor, which he has no intention of leaving and actually plans to stay there the rest of the day until he needs another drink. Maybe the uncomfortable floor will delay sleep several hours.

"Who the hell let you in?" he asks the goose, not expecting an answer. He gets one anyway.

"I did." Shifting a bag onto her shoulder, Hazelle Hawthorne adds, "Sorry. It ran in when I opened the door."

Haymitch sits up from the floor slowly, cautiously. He doesn't respond to her apology - frankly, he doesn't care when the geese get inside - but to her presence, here, in his house in a forsaken district that's been razed to ash and wreckage. She's _here_ when she should be in Thirteen or anywhere else in Panem. Then again, Twelve is her home and maybe that was enough reason for her.

Still, she's in _his_ house.

Groggily, Haymitch realizes Hazelle has come back to him specifically for work. The old canvas bag at her hip is full of cleaning implements: disinfectant spray, varnish, wire wool, and towel rags. Usually it hangs in his pantry beside the mop, broom, and dust pan - all of which Haymitch never bothers to use. The supply bag used to belong to his mother, and he gave it to Hazelle when he hired her, should more work open up to her once the local stigma of her son's flogging lifted. All she would've had without it was a washboard and a bucket full of more used rags and lumps of soap she'd been using as a laundress. Hazelle must have left the bag in his house; any belongings from the Seam that she didn't take with her were surely lost in the firebombing.

The woman looks around the room, and while there's obvious distaste in her gaze there's also determination Haymitch recognizes. She's done this before, and she'll do it again - even though Haymitch isn't asking.

She looks better. Living in Thirteen, where the diet is strict yet consistent, for the past year has filled out her sunken cheeks some. She's still Seam-thin, though, a sharpness to her body that denotes years in destitution. Her olive skin has paled from lack of natural light, and while it's another effect of life in Thirteen, it reminds Haymitch more of a collier's complexion.

Hazelle escaped most of the war but from her tired gray eyes alone, Haymitch can tell she's seen enough. They are haunted, shattered like his own except the cracks are different. Before evacuating Twelve, she witnessed one of the worst repercussions of the rebellion, people she knew choking on smoke and burning alive, her home collapsing around her. Though it wasn't the first time she saw President Snow's extreme punishment at work, it was definitely a more devastating lesson, taught to the entire nation rather than Haymitch and whoever loved him before he won. Whereas District Twelve knew about Haymitch's family but never told, all of Panem knew about Twelve but there was no district left to tattle.

After all of that, Hazelle has returned. Haymitch is kind of annoyed that she wants to resume her job as his housekeeper. Of course, he's not heartless enough to stop her. But hiring her had been awkward before, knowing there were things meant to but couldn't be said, not then.

They should have a conversation about the war or Katniss or the past or even just how their week is going so far. Instead, Haymitch mutters, "Geese don't run, they waddle," before climbing back onto the couch. Realizing she probably wants to clean without any interference, like his snoring, panicked stirring, or even just his damn presence, he slips upstairs and locks his bedroom door behind him.

While his bed is the same and sleep is once again impervious, Haymitch feels different, unnerved.

 

Haymitch Abernathy looked dead when Hazelle found him sprawled out on the couch, all sallow skin and unwashed clothes hanging too baggily from his body. Nonetheless, he sounded alive, his snores practically rattling the walls of his house - as they should now but don't. Through his open mouth she could see un-brushed teeth that no doubt fester in the omnipresent alcohol fumes.

From the looks of him and his big house, Haymitch wasted no time reacquainting himself with liquor. Hazelle knows of his forced sobriety in District Thirteen from Verbena Everdeen. Rebellion orchestrator or not, Haymitch was not an exception to Thirteen's intolerance of wasting limited resources. 

Hazelle remembers learning about his secret involvement in the rebellion when she was evacuated to Thirteen, and how she was glad he was still up to something all those years. He generated lots of talk, including some criticism on whether that was why he quit mentoring their tributes. Hazelle, along with anyone else who knew him and witnessed his unconventional victory in the Second Quarter Quell, should have figured he'd play an integral part. His indirect final kill wasn't even deliberately seditious, and yet the Capitol felt threatened enough to execute his family afterward. Even so, there wasn't enough force behind that rebounding axe for Haymitch to catalyze a rebellion on his own or to even overcome the Peacekeeper crackdown in Twelve following the executions - so he directed Katniss as the Mockingjay years later.

It's disappointing to know all of that about a man and then stand over him as he lives in the dregs of a bottle. But it's not pathetic. Hazelle knew him - the younger him - too well to pity him. She's been plenty tempted over the years but then she would have helped him, and it would have been dangerous to help Haymitch Abernathy.

After Gale's flogging scared off her laundry clientele, she'd been reluctant to go to Haymitch for a job. She asked Katniss to ask him, deciding that tense awkwardness can be endured for the sake of her family but also that the suggestion should come from the girl and not her.

He could have denied the offer, too, and he didn't. So now she's here to help him and pay back what she owes, and she can finally do it right.

The goose that had run - or rather, _waddled_ into the house followed her line of sight and honked in the man's face as if to alert him of company. She doubts Haymitch trained the gaggle crowding his lawn but it was her first thought upon seeing it.

She stepped back when Haymitch sprung, gasping, from the stained cushions, remembering that he slept with a knife. His knife had skid across the floor with a throw pillow. Hazelle noticed he didn't take it with him upstairs when he left her to resume her job after a yearlong absence.

Today, like her first day almost a year and a half ago, is the most arduous. Once she disposes of the filth that's accumulated since the last time she was here, all she has to do is maintain.

There aren't many surprises cleaning his house a second time. Bottles - some broken, some half-full, many empty - litter just about every surface. The only difference is there aren't as many considering he'd been gone last summer and autumn. Also, there are goose feathers and shit _everywhere_. Hazelle clears out all the trash in the living room and moves onto the kitchen before noon.

At noon, Hazelle leaves for lunch as well as to check on the kids, then returns. She doesn't _like_ cleaning but she finds she can lose herself in the work, focusing on dishes and laundry rather than fretting over things that won't pay her.

She doesn't notice the new additions to the house until she's spraying disinfectant everywhere, the clutter she removed leaving another mess behind. The dozen or so picture frames that line the walls and some of the surfaces around the house don't need polishing or dusting or any cleaning at all.

Upon closer inspection, Hazelle sees that the pictures aren't of Katniss or Peeta, recent, but of Haymitch's actual family. _Decoratively_ scattered around are a picture of his parents' wedding day, both their miner portraits as well as his uncle's, random photos of Haymitch and Cory together, and a plaque Hazelle recognizes as the Medal of Valor.

A year ago, these pictures would have been dangerous - or at least, Hazelle assumes they were because Haymitch hid them for so long; they definitely weren't here in the months prior to the Third Quell. Maybe he just didn't want to see them, which is both understandable and upsetting. Hazelle wonders what has changed since then.

Anxiously avoiding the pictures, Hazelle runs her fingers along the edge of the Medal of Valor. They all look the same, fake gold that's not worth shit anywhere with meaningless engraved sentences, mounted on average wood. Some, like Hazelle and evidently the Abernathy family, couldn't bring themselves to break it off and burn it. Hazelle figured temporary warmth wasn't worth the loss of a commemoration for her late husband, however insincere it was. It ended up burning anyway.

After Rohan died, Gale grasped their own plaque like he knew by accepting it he was taking on half the responsibility of providing for his family. Hazelle caught him sneaking out the next morning with a kitchen knife and a few strands of shoelaces tied together for snares. After many promises to Hazelle, Gale crossed the fence into the woods and returned with a sickly rabbit.

Around the time Haymitch accepted this plaque, he, his mother, and Cory were moving into his uncle Sear's house, next door to Hazelle's childhood home.

A stair creaks in the foyer. Haymitch rounds the end of the banister and stops, staring at Hazelle staring at the Medal of Valor as if she's encroached on something deeply personal of his. Well, maybe she has - but _he's_ the one that openly displayed these memories.

She crosses her arms and looks at him questioningly.

"My knife," is all he says.

Reaching into her bag to retrieve it, Hazelle sees the man's eyes flash with accusation and explains, "Didn't want to leave it lying around. I was going to put it on the table before I left." She also didn't want him tearing up the house she's still cleaning to search for it.

She hands it to him, and he grasps the hilt, mindful of her fingers. He nods a little in thanks. Then, he's gone.

Or he would be, except he stops halfway up the stairway to ask, "Why are you, uh, doing this?"

Technically, there are two answers but they have to interconnect or else it would have been foolish of her to return. Hazelle's here to clean his house for money so she can support her family and to finally fix things between them because she can now.

With the completely true answer in her mind, she says, "The kids wanted to come back, and I knew where to find work. We had to wait for some reconstruction to be sure there'd be other company." Her tone is light, almost friendly, but from the way he grimaces Haymitch doesn't receive it as such.

"You could have helped."

Looking around indignantly, because _who is he_ to criticize her with his current lifestyle, Hazelle scoffs, "I was busy making sure my family was safe and cared for. What have you done?"

"Kept two kids breathing even though that was the last thing they or I wanted to do some days." Haymitch shrugs. "So almost the same as you, but not quite." With a wry smile, he disappears upstairs, leaving her in the foyer with her mouth agape.

One good thing about her plan is that she can give up on trying to make any amends with him and just work for him - or even go somewhere else. The problem is she doubts she will.

Well, she has a lot of work to do, then.


	2. Opportunity Calls

The land looks like it's trying to remember summer and not quite grasping it. Thirteen had been so dismal inside and too new and limited outside. Here in Twelve, it's all three everywhere. There's barely any grass outside the Victors' Village, and the sky will have turned cold before basic reconstruction is finished.

Trying to work diligently against the time limit of winter, the workers go out early every morning until dark. They're rebuilding the Town closer to the Victors' Village. The objective, Hazelle thinks, is for it to grow and cover its old location and then some. There won't be another Seam since the nearby mines are shot for good. They're roped off like a mining accident has occurred. The fires deep underground were quelled by a subsidence, the weakened earth suppressing the burning coal seams, but the residual exhaust can still be seen from the Village.

No more colliers, for the time being. The thought is promising until she remembers that these people need jobs. A majority of the dead were miners but the fire took out most of the small merchant class as well. However, while artisans and shopkeepers would have been more helpful setting up the new Town than a bunch of tired former colliers, the Seam attitude of trudging through work with stoic persistence was what cleared the streets of the debris and buried the dead.

Hazelle will give respect where it's due: the returned refugees are doing outstandingly given their situation. Her heart swells with pride for her district whenever she hears the distant hammers and chainsaws rebuilding a better Twelve. She saw some in action this morning as she stepped off the train, onto the platform in the station with her children.

Unsurprisingly, Rory is eager for work. He said as much on the train ride here. After being assigned minor maintenance chores after classes in Thirteen, the chance to finally help his home district roiled within him. Hazelle had the boys unpack their few possessions by sorting the food pack from Thirteen into the pantry before Rory left for the construction site down the road. She reminded Vick to watch Posy while she went several houses over to Haymitch's.

Rory is already home preparing dinner when she comes back in the evening. He was assigned the _very important_ task of sorting and stacking blueprints and serving out water to the other workers. Seeing him sulk about it, Hazelle reminds him it's still work.

Posy, however, is elated to be back, even though they're not living in their small house in the Seam anymore. She likes her new room as well as all the other rooms in the house, and she's told Hazelle this about a dozen times.

While Vick has made himself comfortable by laying a pillow against the wall and reading books he brought from Thirteen, he wants to explore the wilderness. He'd tend to wander off while they stayed by the lake after evacuating Twelve, spending time with Primrose Everdeen, who would point out certain plants her mother used and wildlife that Katniss and her father brought home. From his lengthy contemplations during Reflection in Thirteen, Vick expressed less interest in that, though, and more in the uncharted land itself. Hazelle doesn't know what to make of his fascination; it's different than Gale and Rohan, who saw the forest as an escape and a means to provide for their family.

Hazelle had expected her children to never want to come back after the traumatic bombings. Instead, they'd been begging her to return home, and it softened her that they could still call it that. She kept reminding them that there wouldn't be much of anything that resembled home if they were to return. They didn't seem to mind. Vick even pointed out that since nothing remained, including the burned, rotting corpses, there wasn't much to bring about bad memories - other than the fact that there was nothing.

Her kids are of a tough upbringing, she muses with pride.

They are also amazed by the complexity of a shower. There were showers in District Thirteen, consisting of a showerhead attached to the wall of a stall. These ones in the Victors' Village come straight down, and the dial is much more complex than Thirteen's off-on switch. Though Hazelle has never used one like this herself until tonight, seeing each of her kids marvel at the instant spray of various water temperatures is amusing to her nonetheless.

Rory and Vick are left to their own devices and come out clean. Now it's Posy's turn, and she'll need assistance.

"Momma, it's too hot," her daughter tells her, leaning against the tiled wall, away from the water. Hazelle turns the dial back toward the middle. It was in the position that Vick used earlier, and the water felt fine against Hazelle's hand when she held it out to test it, warm enough to relax the muscles a bit. But it's an uncomfortable temperature for a small child. "Still too hot," Posy says, shaking her head.

Hazelle readjusts the dial, frowning as some water catches her sleeve. "I think you just ain't used to warm water, baby." The bathing water in Thirteen was barely heated, and in the Seam, water from the well was cold whereas boiled water left alone to cool was lukewarm by the time everyone had bathed.

Posy sticks out her palm, then nods. "That's good." She steps into the spray. Hazelle lathers her hair and skin with the provided soaps.

Deemed sparkling, Posy is enveloped by the thick, soft towel that Hazelle holds out. Hazelle notices how tiny her daughter looks, practically swallowed by the towel, and remembers how red and veined Posy was as a newborn - so different from her chubby brothers - the grim willpower it gave Hazelle to provide for her in every way she could.

Hazelle takes her hand. "Let's get you dressed in your nightgown and combed, okay?"

Posy nods, wet, dark strands of hair sticking to her lovely face as well as her back. All of a sudden, Hazelle believes her innocence will do the world good.

Later, she's half-listening to Vick approximate the distance between the lakeside cabin to the nearest railroad when the phone rings.

"Hello?"

"Mom?"

"Gale! How are you?"

"I'm fine," her son answers. "I was calling to check on you, though. Make sure you arrived at the right house safe and all."

"Yes, we did." Hazelle leans a hip against the wall, smiling. "It's good to hear from you."

"Yeah, sorry about that." She hears Gale sigh on the other line. "I tried to contact you again before you left Thirteen but I've been busy with meetings. It's so surreal; I feel like I should be back in Twelve with you, helping rebuild, not negotiating with a bunch of uptight, starchy officers."

Rory rushes up to Hazelle. "Is that Gale? Can I talk to him?"

Hazelle shushes him. "After I'm done." She clarifies to her oldest son, "Your siblings miss you. I'll hand the phone over soon. Anyway, don't worry; you're probably doing more in Two than if you were here."

"How _is_ everything over there? Have they started rebuilding businesses or is it just the basic structures first? Rations stand, all that?"

"They're working pretty fast but I think it's just things like the ration stands that are up and running. I didn't see a lot on the way from the train station to the Village, though."

"That probably says enough, that you didn't see much," says Gale, worried. "You found work, though, right?"

"I'm rebuilding the entire grocery, yes."

"Hilarious." He must be rolling his eyes. They both know she couldn't handle that kind of labor now. She's not as weak as she was after Posy, whose birth seeped much of her strength and kept her from the mines, which she couldn't return to anyway with a newborn at home. Hazelle's fairly strong despite her slight frame. It's her age that has worn her down some.

Hazelle laughs and answers soberly, "But really, I do have work. Back to housekeeping for me."

"Abernathy?"

"Yes. All the washing machines here took out any laundry service. I won't miss that. Tomorrow I'll start collecting anything that needs mended from the neighbors, for good measure. We'll be fine, Gale. We're back in District Twelve, at least."

Her son huffs a laugh. "I'd say life in Thirteen is still an improvement right now."

"Thirteen functions fine but it ain't home."

An edge has crept into Gale's tone. "Can't argue with that, except there is no more of that home."

"I know, baby. Don't think anyone's forgotten," murmurs Hazelle. She straightens up. "Besides, we're only getting better. Right?"

"Right, if I can sort it out with others like me so people like you can work and actually get things done."

"Haven't forgotten your roots, I see," Hazelle teases lightly. "All right, well, Rory's about to carve into the floor, he's pacing around so much-"

"Mom!" Rory interjects from the doorway.

"-so I'm going to hand you over. I love you."

"Love you, too," Gale says.

Hazelle hands Rory the phone and walks back into the living room. Vick hasn't looked up from his book or moved from his place on the couch. He continues to tell her what he estimates is the distance between the train station to the eastern coastline.

 

Looking out through his now-spotless window, Haymitch sees a different landscape than when he and Katniss arrived back from the Capitol. They returned in the middle of winter, yes, but the ash from that past summer still hung in the air, settling over the snow - endless snow, there was nothing else - like the coal dust used to. Now the ash and snowmelt have absorbed into the soil, and the charred, twisted remains of Town that he could see from his window months ago have vanished.

In the distance are the mountains, and they look as green and rolling and ancient as ever. To know there are places the Capitol hasn't touched is reassuring.

Because the view was only a reminder of the cost of rebellion, Haymitch hasn't looked outside very often. Until Hazelle came back, he figured everything was the same in Twelve: dreary, bleak, and, for the most part, desolate. But maybe time has been more productive than he thought.

Obviously, there's a working train station because he still receives liquor from the three people who he knows for sure live here. But other than that, Haymitch is reluctant to admit that he hasn't paid much attention to the condition of his district.

The Victors' Village, having been so far removed from the rest of the district, was unharmed by the firebombs. The illuminated windows are from real people, not ghosts or hallucinations, who returned within the past few months and took up residence in the nine other houses in the neighborhood. There must have been some unspoken consensus that no one would try to move in with the Mockingjay or the Boy Wonder or their surly, drunken mentor.

Seeing all the work so far from inside his house, Haymitch is guiltily reminded that he hasn't done much to help. He brought down the oppressive authority that kept them from freedom, and he figured that should have been enough. But leaving a war with no intention of helping the world afterward strikes him as lazy and careless.

So far all he's done is drink, feed geese, and help the kids with their book. They're not that far into it, and already they claim they will never finish it. He's told his share. It was something of a relief to finally remember all those dead children aloud, to make sure he hadn't forgotten them after he couldn't even save them, but it didn't alleviate the burden of their blood like he'd foolishly hoped. His most recent bender stemmed from that crushing disappointment.

He's kept in touch with Sae - or rather, she's kept in touch with him. She stops by with food and small talk, as do the kids nowadays. He assumes his little victors are doing better. He always seems to be in stock of bread and squirrel stew and, courtesy of the train, liquor. Sae had checked in on Katniss for him in the winter and through some of spring; surely the girl didn't want his company.

Frankly, Haymitch couldn't bear to see her yet, either. Even through his renewed drunken state, he knew exactly what she was going through and that the guidance and comfort of a mentor only alleviates so much. She'd become attached only to fall apart again when he failed her, which  _would_  happen because Haymitch doesn't know how to fix her. But he does understand, even empathizes; he was so much like her all those years ago. He just can't offer her anything substantial when he's a fucking mess himself. So Sae visited Katniss, and Peeta returned by early spring - crisis avoided.

Except today Hazelle reappeared in his life so he's once again reminded of how unequipped he is at handling anything. As a neighbor and childhood friend, her decision to abandon him had stung. The rest of his friends followed suit, and so for the majority of his life, he was alone in his despair.

Haymitch shakes his head, shoving aside thoughts about a woman who doesn't - and shouldn't - care about him. He leaves the window and goes into the kitchen for another bottle. Drowning out the past and present appeals to him exceptionally right now.

The phone in his study rings.

He answers, not yet knowing what to think, and before he can say anything Plutarch Heavensbee is harping about how silly of him it was to not contact him sooner.

"What do you want?" Haymitch asks drily.

Plutarch isn't affected. "Your help, of course! You didn't think you'd be rendered useless after the war, did you?"

Glancing toward the nearest window, where outside the gaggle meanders about his yard, he replies, "I assumed so after I was sent home to babysit." He rolls his eyes at himself; they both know it's sort of an unfair assumption since Haymitch volunteered to be Katniss and Peeta's legal guardian.

He can practically hear Plutarch wave a hand dismissively. "Oh, that doesn't mean we wouldn't appreciate your thoughts on the matter of this new, squirming infant Panem. As Secretary of Communications," the Capitol man says with barely restrained pride, "I need contact with all of the districts. Unfortunately, there's no representation in Twelve."

With a humorless laugh, Haymitch almost replies,  _There's nothing to represent!_  but stops himself. Until this morning, he believed that. Instead, he says, "We're in no shape to organize administration. Not yet, at least. Town's barely up again."

"Done."

"What?"

"I've just requested an increase in shipments to Twelve as well as a crew of professional construction workers." Plutarch has a simple, nonchalant way about him whenever he's not talking about something that's impassioning to him. Frankly, it pisses Haymitch off.

"You…" Haymitch pinches the bridge of his nose, repressing a deep sigh. "You're well enough to do that, wherever you are?"

"I'm in the Capitol, Haymitch. We're fine here, yes - as much as we can be after the war - and we're able to branch out to the districts now. Some have been handling reconstruction well, though, particularly Three, Seven, and Ten. They even have volunteers available."

"And you're just now sending in help to the one district that ain't even a district anymore."

"Well, I'm sure you're at least receiving simple supplies or else you'd be dead," Plutarch points out, and Haymitch cringes at the implication that he's referring to alcohol rather than food and the like. "Until Gale Hawthorne sent out a memo tonight, I didn't know how many people had returned without much construction done. He assigned his family the house saved for the team of railroaders repairing the train station after they left for District Six, and he learned the progress in your district is underwhelming despite its growing population. Before, I assumed it was just you three and maybe a few stragglers from District Thirteen, natives to Twelve or not."

"Plutarch!" Haymitch slams a hand against the wall. "You mean to tell me that until recently, you haven't even considered that  _maybe_  whoever's here  _might_  need some help rebuilding?"

He ignores the twinge of shame at his hypocrisy.

"We've needed months to regroup, Haymitch. You know how long some of this can take. It's especially difficult when several regions of the country need equally concentrated aid."

"District Twelve should have been at the top of that list; there wasn't anything to build from. You knew that, even during the war!"

"Yet there was no one to help, then," explains Plutarch, in that fucking calm, almost bored voice. Haymitch detects a condescending undertone as well but doesn't react to it; Plutarch is considerate compared to some of the officials he met in District Thirteen. "Evidently, there are people to rebuild a district for, and we have enough resources to begin to succor now."

Haymitch's brow furrows deeper. "You keep saying 'we'. They really let you in their club? No rules against former affiliates of Snow, the Hunger Games, all that?" His masterminding the rebellion and his new Secretary of Communications position aside, Plutarch Heavensbee was a Head Gamemaker once. President Paylor and her cabinet would be wise not to trust him.

Plutarch hesitates, which answers more to Haymitch than what he says next. His voice slightly strained, he replies, "Unlike most, I went into the war with a design of what we could be afterward, not just what we shouldn't be, having studied ancient politics and historic renewals of government. Anyone suspicious of me should still recognize that this knowledge is desperately needed. They've no reason to interfere with my work if it doesn't hinder the progress of Panem."

"Fair enough," Haymitch admits.

"I assure you that no one has forgotten where we all stood before the war." Plutarch clears his throat. "Returning to the purpose of this call, I'd like to reconnect with Twelve through the only person I trust can do it."

"Me?" Haymitch lifts his brows in disbelief. He assumed Plutarch was going to ask him to find someone for him. "I don't know much about history and all that outside of, you know, school textbooks."

"For someone who couldn't use a fork properly before his time in the Capitol yet had the guile to bring it down years later, I think it's safe to say your skills could only be beneficial to us. You don't need to know history to know politics, anyway. If I remember correctly, you helped immensely at a certain trial for a rather doomed young lady, and I doubt you're hiding a law degree." At Haymitch's silence, Plutarch continues, "I want to put you to work. It would be a waste if you didn't lend us your mind."

"I," Haymitch pauses, closing his eyes, "I'll think it over, okay?" After a few parting words, he hangs up the phone.

Despite the enticing bottles in his kitchen, Haymitch finds himself back at the window, looking out at his district. It's in early stages of restoration. They don't have to build the Seam again. They can make this place better - and he can help.

Before, what he saw filled him with guilt and anger. Seeing the land with a new perspective, Haymitch feels something exciting within him: hope, mingled with determination.


	3. The Seam Way

When Hazelle stirs at the sound in the hallway, she's only half-awoken. Sighing, she rolls over and is rewarded the rest of the bed. There's so much room.

While she indulges herself in this luxury, she wishes Rohan was sleeping next to her. He would've loved the extra space. The entire night he would stay completely still on his stomach, accustomed to sleeping in cramped conditions, though his tall frame took up much of their mattress. She misses how there was always a comfortably heavy limb draped over her, how the bed rose and sunk in sync with his breathing. She misses him.

The door to the bedroom creaks open, and Hazelle sits up, looking for whichever child has come. She was expecting at least one of them tonight, on their first night in the house.

Motherly concern, not alarm being her first response worries her. With Gale no longer living with them, there's a need to be fearful of intruders instead of merely her children's nightmares now.

"Momma?" It's Posy.

"I'm awake," answers Hazelle, peeling off the corner of the blanket next to her. "Come here."

"I don't like my new bed," Posy explains as she crosses the room and climbs into Hazelle's bed. "I mean, I like my room but I don't like sleeping in it."

"I understand, baby. You'll get used to it over time." She proved that in District Thirteen.

Hazelle glances at her bedside alarm clock. She'll have to get up in a few hours for work but it's still dark outside. She holds Posy, who presses her face into the curve of Hazelle's neck. In less than ten minutes, her breathing levels out, and then Hazelle relaxes into sleep as well.

In the morning, she hurries to set off the alarm before it wakes Posy. As Hazelle descends the stairs, she pulls her hair back with an elastic band. She sets out breakfast for Rory to finish once everyone else is awake. He should be up soon.

When she leaves, she's met with crisp, morning air and a pastel sunrise. The Village is laid out before her neatly, a light fog suspended over the lawns and the street like smoke. She looks out over the canopy of the woods at the telltale pall in the distance. Its color darker than the fog around her, Hazelle imagines the surrounding area, choked and charred and dead. The shiver surprises her; she was remembering the firebombing.

Walking over to the house across from hers, Hazelle can hear people moving about inside - definitely adults but also a child, she thinks. As she knocks on the front door, she grips the strap of the bag she took with her, having emptied its contents to hopefully make room for anything needing mended.

A middle-aged Seam woman she recognizes as Alice Grant answers the door. "Hazelle! It's great to see you again."

Hazelle smiles. "Likewise, Alice."

After a quick embrace, Alice invites her inside. The house is sparsely furnished with their own possessions, not unlike her own. The smell of fresh bread, eggs, and tea sweeps over Hazelle like a warm breeze. She follows the other woman into the kitchen, where her husband and her sons sit at the table eating breakfast.

The Grant family lived a block or so away from Hazelle and her family in the Seam. She got to know them better in District Thirteen, where their compartments were closer.

Wilbur Grant stands and shakes her hand upon seeing her. "So you did come back! We weren't sure whether you'd stay in Thirteen."

"No, this is our home. I just wanted to wait a bit. The kids practically pulled me onto the train, they were so excited," Hazelle answers. She rejects Alice's offer of tea.

Sipping her own drink, Alice stands with her at the counter. "Our boys were worried about having no friends around," she says. "Hector came home last night saying he saw Rory so we reckoned you returned with your little herd."

Hazelle laughs, then asks Hector, their oldest, "You're working down at the construction site?"

Hector nods. "Yes, ma'am. I'm helping with the bakery. I have to head out in a bit."

"Once that bakery's rebuilt, the Mellark boy's going to be working down there. He's been funding its reconstruction and feeding us the entire spring," Wilbur says. "Here, have some bread."

"No, thank you," says Hazelle. "I'll have to find him today and sign up."

Their youngest third son, who's about nine years old, pipes up, "He was here a little bit ago. He delivers the bread every morning and then goes to the Town. You could catch him before then."

Hazelle smiles at him. "Guess I will. Thank you, Glenn."

Glenn nods and scoops a forkful of eggs into his mouth.

Though she's already been friendly enough to propose her service to them, their breakfast prompts Hazelle to ask, "You have hens?"

Alice affirms, "Thirteen issued them to us, figuring we'd need livestock before District Ten could send more. We supply part of the rations. We've got a little coop out back there, courtesy of my men." She touches Wilbur's shoulder and lifts her mug toward her sons.

Hazelle looks out their kitchen window at the amateurishly made henhouse stooped right outside the house. She sees a pen next to it. "Oh, pigs, too?"

"And two goats," adds Aiden, a friend and classmate of Vick's. "Her name is Nala and his name's Gillie."

"You'll have milk, then." Hazelle remembers Prim's goat Lady with a touch of remorse. She absently touches the bag at her hip and jolts herself back into a work mindset. "Well, anyway, I'm here to see if you needed anything mended."

Wilbur and Alice's immediate response is affirmative, much to their sons' chagrin. Ripped sleeves and worn pants must be quite common. After agreeing to barter for some eggs and goat milk and collecting clothes from them, Hazelle walks to the door with Alice.

"Well, I'm off to find any other takers before I head over to Haymitch's."

"You're his housekeeper again?" asks Alice.

Nodding, Hazelle tells her, "This is just for security. I don't like putting all my eggs in one basket." Back before the rebellion, she'd had multiple incomes with her laundry service and Gale's trade of poaching and his job in the mines. While she _could_ retire and live off Gale's appropriations now, she doesn't want to depend on her son like that. She doesn't want to completely depend on Haymitch, either, like she did last year when she was desperate.

"Hard not to," Alice jokes, but something in her mood has dimmed. Away from the others, she crosses her arms, frowning as she says, "You know, the people on television are always saying that this is the chance to start over since we won the war. Those mines are worthless now, and so are miners like Wilbur and I. The boys grew up learning how to be miners, then in Thirteen to be some other kind of manual workers or soldiers. We've had to adapt."

Hazelle furrows her brow, confused. "What-"

"You could be anything, and you're going to be _his maid_ again, Hazelle?" The woman shakes her head at her in disappointment.

The bag of clothes anchors Hazelle to the floor. She snaps, "I plan to do whatever I can to keep my children fed and safe. That's the Seam way, ain't it?" Before Alice Grant can open her stupid mouth again, Hazelle pulls the front door open, predicts in a measured tone that she'll have the clothes back by Tuesday, and leaves, careful not to slam the door shut and alert Wilbur or the boys.

She deposits the clothes in a pile at the house, reminds Vick to play with his sister, then crosses the street again to a house diagonal to hers, neighboring the Grants. Hector is already down the road when a man answers the door. He introduces himself as Nathaniel Carter. She doesn't quite remember him but she thinks he was a cousin of Artie Everdeen.

"So what can I do for you?" Nathaniel asks, casually blocking her from entering the doorway. Smart man, obviously Seam with his sharp gray eyes, dark waves, and olive skin. He looks to be in his thirties.

"Anything you need darned in exchange for..." Hazelle trails off, allowing him to fill the blank himself.

Nathaniel scratches his chin. "I've got access to ration cards that we can bargain. Having sewn clothes while we're always working would be nice. You collecting now?" She lifts her bag a little in response. "Hold on just a minute."

He returns with a larger bundle of clothes than the Grants'. She looks at it questioningly, and he must read her face well because he explains, "This is a residence for the workers. Nearly all of our clothes need mended."

Hazelle hides her frown, thinking of how torn their clothes must be. "Why ain't you down there?"

"Sick. I've almost recovered - just didn't want to risk spreading the flu to the others. They should all be fine without me unless we suddenly have a change of plans."

"Why's that?" Hazelle asks idly, stuffing the clothes into her bag as best she can.

"Well, I've been the overseer since we started up. I used to be a captain, and we all figured that was as much qualification as any."

Nodding, Hazelle extends a hand with newfound respect for the man. He hesitates until she tells him she's practically immune due to her kids. She bids him good health, leaves to find Peeta if she can, and then to Haymitch's.

 

"So you're like the mayor now?" Peeta asks, regarding the mess of papers amid the bottles on Haymitch's desk.

"Because clearly I'm qualified." Haymitch rolls his eyes good-naturedly, leaning back in his chair with a bottle. "I'm just helping us become an actual district again. Think of me more as… an _unofficial_ district coordinator for the time being."

The temporary job suited him. He suspects Plutarch wants him to fall in love with public works and commit full-time, to then transition into politics and _lend that mind of his_ or whatever the man had said over the phone. Haymitch has no desire to lead the district, though. Working in the background until Twelve is able to stand on its own again and then fading back into a quiet life is much more attractive. He's not like Plutarch, who had a plan for after the war - he just knew their current government was shit and needed to go. He does want to help but he can't imagine staying after stabilizing basic reconstruction. In a way, he's only finishing something he helped start.

Peeta uncrosses his legs and leans forward in his seat that he pushed up to the desk. "What are all these papers?"

"Contacts from over the years."

"Capitol sponsors?" Katniss asks from her own seat, the farthest from the desk. She's curled up, tired and proud after a long morning of hunting. Still thin from the winter, she's had to pace herself, quitting midway through her snare line when she's feeling unwell. While the heat's been no help with controlling her stamina, the warmer weather has had a regenerative effect on her spirit.

Haymitch shakes his head, sweeping an analytical look across the stacks. "No, rebels: district officials, Capitol defectors, military personnel, and the like. I've been deciphering them in the margins since they don't need to be in code anymore."

As Haymitch takes a long pull from his bottle, the boy reads over a paper. Together, they've listed what's been built, what's being built, and what needs to be built by winter. The latter third is bitterly longer than the first two. "If you want, we could help you sort these, figure out who can do what." Peeta's expression remains earnest even after Katniss groans.

Haymitch replies, "As much as I know you _both_ want to do that, it ain't something I need help with. I just have to decode, call, find out whether they're alive and willing to associate with the public, and beg for their help." He smirks at the girl. "Not unlike dealing with sponsors."

Peeta rises from his chair. "Well, the bread won't deliver itself. I still have a few orders left. The crew will be on break by the time I get down there."

"You've got some new business now that the Hawthornes are back, too."

"Yeah, I guess so," says Peeta, his eyes flickering toward Katniss.

As the boy bids them goodbye, he hovers by Katniss uncertainly, leaving when she doesn't permit a physical valediction. The girl glances at Haymitch, who has already turned back to his work and his liquor, after the front door closes. When she sees there's no smirk or retort to their awkward little goodbye, she looks away, lost in thought.

"I didn't know they came back." Her voice is suddenly very frail, and Haymitch snaps his head up. She's gone pale. He curses himself for not realizing sooner.

"It's just Hazelle and the kids. He's still in Two - or at least not here with them." Haymitch has no idea if that's true as he only saw Hazelle yesterday and exchanged roughly five sentences with her, none of which pertaining to her oldest son. But he doubts Gale would return, even with his own district struggling to recuperate. Thinking of Plutarch's phone call, Haymitch figures Gale could have learned about Twelve's condition through his family. The kid better have the brains to stay away from here; Katniss does not need to worry more than she already has to when she's stuck in this district full of bad memories for the foreseeable future.

The girl shakes her head, on the verge of tears or something worse. "That might be worse, seeing all them after-" Her hands almost hide the way her mouth contorts but Haymitch detects it nonetheless and crosses the room before she can start sobbing.

Gale Hawthorne has been a sore topic rarely touched the past few months - for good reason, too. Not even Haymitch, who doesn't pry into Katniss and Peeta's lives anymore now that neither is trying to kill the other, could help but notice the shift in Katniss' behavior whenever something related to her late sister or her childhood best friend reached their broken, separate world. After she made some headway in Primrose's passage in the memory book, Katniss escaped into the forest for the entire day, and upon returning to news of the reestablishment of Two's Justice Building, she left again. The connection was obvious.

While he's patting her back, Haymitch can't help but chuckle. "Was that honestly your first clue they were back? The cleaner house wasn't any indication?"

Katniss huffs a scathing laugh. "It ain't that clean - just not as foul."

"Well, she's trying."

Shaking her head, the girl tells him, "Kind of hoped you were starting to put yourself together, what with working for Plutarch and all." That's when he notices the disappointment pinching her face instead of distress.

He keeps rubbing between her shoulders but looks away. She can smell the alcohol on his breath, anyway. "Still drinking," he mumbles.

After a moment, the girl pushes him away and sits up in the chair straighter. She's eighteen years old and Haymitch can't tell whether she looks younger or older. Where her scrawny body isn't violently scarred it's baby pink, yet her eyes - it seems as if every pair of Seam eyes he's come across has aged a hundred years.

He remembers when Peeta's eyes were always clouded and angrily confused in Thirteen. They've since returned to their normal, hopeful bright blue but the ones in his nightmares haven't.

" _That's_ an understatement." Katniss considers the carpet dejectedly. "What should I do? I can't ignore them when they'll be around the district now. The kids will want to see me, and Hazelle will want to catch up."

"Maybe they don't know."

"But I do." She brushes some stray hairs off her forehead and exhales. "Well?"

Haymitch shrugs. "I don't know what to tell you, sweetheart. I'm in the same boat as you on dealing with that kind of shit." Honestly, his metaphorical boat has long ago tipped over, and he's drowned in alcohol since. Considering they're both thinking of Hazelle, in a way, he's even more useless.

The scowl returns to Katniss' face but her eyes are still wet and red. "Somehow I knew you'd say that. I'm going to feed Buttercup." It's enough of a goodbye, and she leaves.

Without any more distractions, Haymitch returns to his desk. He takes a steady drink, skimming the list again. They need telephones down the road. Racking his brain for names, only one fits the job - sort of. He dials the number without a reference.

Beetee picks up on the third call. "Yes? Who is this?" the familiar, short-accented voice asks on the other line.

"Easy, just Haymitch."

"Oh. I should have recognized the area code."

Haymitch opts for a considerate approach. "You must have a lot going on right now, I'm sure. How have you been?"

"I'm well enough," says Beetee. "Busy, but I rather enjoy what I'm working on now." Haymitch silently acknowledges that that doesn't even skim the surface about his previous projects during the war. He imagines Gale and Beetee bent over blueprints that would be taken advantage of without their consent. In Gale's case, it must be true, and Haymitch doesn't really _want_ to know the extent of Beetee's involvement in the parachute bombings. It's his same attitude toward Plutarch's contribution, with the live coverage – as if he knew it would happen. There's a pause that's probably thoughtful for Beetee but awkward for Haymitch. Finally, Beetee asks, "May I ask why you're calling?"

"We need telephones here in Twelve. The construction site's down the road and only the Village and the train station have telecommunication."

"Haymitch, I'm an inventor, not an electrician."

Taking a page out of Plutarch's book of flattery, Haymitch retorts, "Well, if you can loop the bug system and break into Capitol broadcasts, I'm sure telephones shouldn't be too much of a hassle. Besides, I just figured you knew more people suited for the job than I would. Our old district electrician was incinerated, and any apprentice of hers was, too."

On the other line, Beetee sighs. "Fine, fine. I don't appreciate the graphic imagery, you know. I'll give you the mayor's phone number so you can ask about getting a group of tradespeople. You need more than telephones, right?"

"Yes. We sort of need anything available." Scanning the list, Haymitch notes that they have electricity, albeit not entirely reliable, though District Five is working on that. They also have plumbing but a competent plumber wouldn't be unwelcome. While Peeta and Katniss had filled him in on almost everything else on the list, Haymitch was at least aware of those.

"Your train station," asks Beetee, "it's been restored already?" When Haymitch confirms, a little confused, Beetee muses aloud that the railroader guild has been very efficient. According to the older man, one of the first decrees of President Paylor was repairing the railroads across Panem so supplies and workers can be transported without hovercraft, whose limited space yet high-speed travel are used for emergency shipments.

Haymitch replies that Twelve received some of those in early spring, with equipment to clean up and to begin building. "What they forgot to send were skilled workers," he adds dryly.

"District Three has been functioning well with all of the guilds. It's even created volunteer opportunities for the other districts. I'm shocked there's no one in Twelve yet."

"Plutarch just ordered some, or however it works. But as of now, what workers we have – amateur former miners, mind you - need to be able to communicate on a moment's notice."

"I understand. Talk with the mayor about that." Beetee recites the phone number as Haymitch jots it down in the margin of his list.

"Thanks, Volts."

"Good luck," replies the older victor, adding in a slightly awkward, teasing manner, "Hayseed."

Haymitch chuckles. "I'm hanging up now." He does just that, and before he calls the District Three mayor, he realizes he's almost a third into his bottle. After a quick self-assessment, he can tell he'll be more than tipsy if he drinks anymore. He'll have to monitor himself so the next few conversations today are relatively coherent, then. There's enough in his system that he can last until late afternoon, maybe early evening - plenty of time to start establishing reconnections. He has the rest of the night to drink, anyway.

Setting the bottle on the floor beside his desk, Haymtich tells himself this temporary job is just like the geese, something to do when he's not drinking - except he's not short on any liquor right now, and getting the district back on track is a bit more important than feeding geese.

The rest of the night, he reassures himself with a deep breath.


	4. One Step Sideways

By noon, Haymitch has only just finished his first drink of the day - and he's been awake for hours. He wanted to wait until after all of the phone calls but the follow-up with Plutarch frustrated him into drinking halfway through the conversation.

Haymitch was in the middle of decoding the contact information of an informant from Seven when Hazelle arrived for work. He can hear her clearing out the upstairs as he leaves the study with his empty bottle.

His head is becoming pretty clouded, and he can either drink to maintain that or get drunker. Since there's nothing left to do today, he decides the latter. But he doesn't want to stay in the study where all his notes, lists, and contacts are scattered about - too easy to soil them, and what would he tell Plutarch?

Rolling his eyes at himself, Haymitch wonders when he started to care about not disappointing Plutarch. Maybe it was their half-hour-long conversation over the phone about Haymitch's progress on the first day that had Plutarch practically planning their fucking wedding.

Joining the volunteers from the Capitol are workers from guilds in Three, Five, and Seven. Plutarch reminded Haymitch that the volunteers may not settle in Twelve and only intend to lend their services for the cause. They still need shelter during their time here, however, so tomorrow Haymitch has to ensure there is room for all these newcomers.

If the telephone call had ended there, everything would've been fine. But _of course_ Plutarch went on about how the president wants to set up a conference next month for the Hunger Games anniversary, and that she needs representatives - _great minds_ , he described with a knowing chortle - from each district. Picking up his bottle, at last, Haymitch had deflected the subtle invitation with, "Hope Twelve finds some sorry bastard in time for that." The aftertaste of his first drink in hours was especially sharp.

He takes that same bottle into the kitchen and tosses it into the trashcan Hazelle replaced.

Since Hazelle cleaned it out yesterday, Haymitch is careful going about the kitchen for another bottle and some food. It seems insulting to soil anything after all her hard, albeit unsolicited, work. She's already mopped the kitchen floor, and the counters and cabinets look polished. There are dishes in the sink, the only sign of incompleteness. He considers just finishing those for her but then his stomach growls.

Stuffing a slice of bread into his mouth, Haymitch moves into the living room to survey Hazelle's work there so far. Though they're still pretty stained, he can tell she's cleaned the couch cushions as much as she could.

It's kind of amusing how she went a bit overboard on the living room and the kitchen while the rest of the house still needs clearing out. He's not complaining - he just doesn't remember if she did this last time as well. Around that time, with Ripper in the stocks, Haymitch was struggling to conserve his liquor enough to hold off withdrawal. Whether Hazelle focused on one room at a time wasn't much of a concern to him then. She's always been an overachiever so it makes sense that she cleans meticulously, Haymitch supposes.

The perfectionist herself walks into the kitchen, as if detecting a threat to her progress. She has a jacket that's too small and too teal to be his own. "I found this by the hamper but I assume it belongs to Katniss?" she asks.

Haymitch shakes his head. "Peeta's."

"Right," she snorts. "Well, you should give this back to her clean. I can throw it in the wash if you want?"

He shrugs. "I don't care what happens to it; her fault for leaving it here."

With one hand on her hip and the other holding the jacket like an argument, Hazelle says, "I'll return it to her, then."

Recalling the girl's unease that morning, Haymitch decides it's not the best idea. "Actually, I'll just... take that," he drawls as he reaches for the jacket. It's thin, and the cool material reminds him of how warm his hands are whereas the rest of him feels even colder. He hangs it on a kitchen chair by the hood.

"I guess she'll find it there eventually," remarks Hazelle.

"How'd you even notice it?" He thinks he remembers the day Katniss left it upstairs, slipping it off and complaining about his stuffy house before she told him about something Peeta said or did. It must have been pretty significant if she was desperate enough to come to him. Haymitch can't remember whether he was any help.

An ironic smirk twitches at Hazelle's lips. "Only thing out of the ordinary - like all the pictures." She gestures toward some that recline nearby.

"Or you're just nosey," says Haymitch.

"I'm either going to find them or they're lost." The woman looks him over. He's not outrageously drunk but there's something off-putting she must see besides. "Hard to believe Katniss comes over here."

That almost nettles Haymitch more than her fixation on the pictures because, yeah, he's him but he woke up and sat with Katniss and listened to her that day. Bristling, he retorts, "Yeah, out of all the other adult figures around here."

Hazelle holds up her hands in defense. "I just meant the house ain't very welcoming at the moment, not that you - never mind. Sorry," she mumbles, then leaves him in the kitchen to return upstairs.

Haymitch sits down at the table with a sigh. No more notes for now, no more distractions, no more people and _their_ problems. He really needs a drink.

After a couple more hours and many more drinks, he hears a light tread down the steps, heading for the kitchen.

"Just a small break," she explains, as if he'd be mad otherwise. Maybe he was too harsh before. Going over to one of the cabinets, Hazelle takes out a glass to fill with water from the tap, and offhandedly offers him one as well. Haymitch takes a deliberate swig from his bottle in response. "All right, then," she mutters into her water.

They drink, not quite in sync with each other.

Standing by the sink, Hazelle studies the cabinets with dissatisfaction. "Ever consider repainting those?" she asks him. "That color would still look nice, only needs a fresher coat." She ignores his annoyed expression as she takes another sip. "Are the pictures all you're going to do?"

Haymitch sets his bottle down firmly and falls back against the chair, casting her a withering look. "Haven't gotten around to anything else."

"I like them," she tries.

"That's _great_. Maybe we can decorate the whole house after you finish the upstairs?" he replies sardonically. He can't help his drunken temper; her barging into his house and then his personal life like this isn't doing her housekeeping resumption any favors, especially on the second day. He hired her again, sure, because she needs the money and he honestly doesn't but that doesn't give her free rein to talk about his family.

With a sigh he barely catches, she nods, acquiescing, and places her cup in the overcrowded sink. "I'll get to these soon," she says, of the dishes.

"No rush." He doesn't wait for her to leave before taking his longest, most needed drink of the day.

 

Hazelle decides it could have gone a lot worse.

The second-second day of housekeeping for Haymitch went how she expected the second-first day would go. She realizes now, rather sheepishly, that her offer of service is more of an inconvenience than a benefit to him.

He answered the door this time, at least, though Hazelle arrived a little later than the day before. Also, thankfully, the gaggle was wandering around his and Katniss' backyards and not inside the house.

Haymitch made phone calls in his office while she cleaned the upstairs hallway. With the other bedrooms unoccupied and undisturbed, the entire second level of his house wasn't as filthy as the kitchen alone, which meant less time to clear it out and clean yet also less time avoiding Haymitch. Hazelle had two plans, and she knew she couldn't keep hiding behind one.

Her stomach started growling while she peeled off the bed sheets in the master bedroom, and although it was due to hunger, she figured some water could tame it until dinner. Her water break was also an excuse to better herself with Haymitch but that went horribly.

As Hazelle leaves for the day, she tries to be soundless making her way to the front door.

"Hey, wait."

Hand on the handle, she actually _startles_ at his voice. She isn't afraid of him; he's fiercer sober, and while liquor can unhinge a man's mouth or fist, Haymitch has been drunk around her before without issue. His temper earlier was a first but in retrospect, she sort of instigated it.

Haymitch gestures to a pot on the stove. "Made coffee if you want some." His voice isn't slurred much but his flushed face and numb eyes are clear indications of inebriation.

"Uh, thank you," Hazelle says as she walks into the kitchen. "I can make coffee whenever you're drunk, though. Really, just ask." She feels too blunt, referring to his drinking aloud, even though it's not a secret. All of Panem knows of his addiction.

"I stopped after you left," he tells her, pouring each of them a mug of black coffee. The steam from the coffee curls around his hand as he pushes a mug across the table toward her. He looks around for a spoon a bit hopelessly after he takes a container of sugar from the pantry.

From the table, Hazelle says, "They're all dirty."

"I didn't want to handle the dishes-" Haymitch starts.

"So you brewed boiling hot coffee instead?" At his sheepish expression, she swallows any other retorts with her coffee, grimacing a little at the bitter hot taste, then carefully tips the sugar container into her cup. However rare a treat it was her entire life, she's missed sugar. "But thanks," she adds earnestly.

"There's bread, too." Haymitch takes a mug for himself and reclines against the counter a bit.

Hazelle considers the somewhat eaten loaf on the counter. In her anger toward Alice earlier, Hazelle forgot to grab breakfast when she dropped off the clothes, and she missed lunch coming here after going down to the reconstruction site. She hopes Vick didn't waste food to save a plate for her since she plans to just have a slightly larger dinner. Still, Haymitch is offering and she's hungry and doesn't know how long he plans to talk to her - if that's what's even happening. The change in him is strange. They may have talked more today than they have in years.

Accepting a slice, she asks, "Is this Peeta's bread?" Haymitch nods and she continues, "I placed an order from him today. Our food pack from Thirteen doesn't have much fresh food so I'm really looking forward to all the fresh bread."

Haymitch waves a hand. "You can take the rest of this. Most of it goes to the geese but they're getting fat."

He looks like he needs bread more than the geese do, Hazelle thinks. This man is confusing her; he's drunk yet not surly like he was mere hours ago, and they're having a normal conversation. Perhaps this is his way of apologizing for earlier. She pushes her luck. "I've been meaning to ask: why geese?"

"They nested back there where the ground's kind of marshy, and I didn't have anything to do so..." He half-shrugs to finish his sentence. "Peeta brings me bread every other damn day so I feed them that and they've stayed."

With a snort, Hazelle quips, "They seem to like your house, too."

"Ain't that bad of company, really."

"I prefer people."

"To each their own." He smirks wryly. "At least I know the geese will migrate eventually whereas people have a habit of leaving unpredictably at the worst times."

Hazelle blanches at his words. In a strained voice, she replies, "Sometimes that's the best decision for everyone." She wants to say more but doesn't.

The way his mouth twists, even Haymitch recognizes he was out of line. He nods, quiet and fadingly drunk and not the sixteen-year-old boy she once knew but not a completely different person either. The boy she knew had a soul. She imagines his soul now must be a dark, scarred, mangled thing, forever hunching into itself, but it's _there_.

"I'm - That wasn't the best way of going about this." He scratches his hair absently, looking down into his coffee. "So I've been thinking," he starts as he shifts against the counter, and Hazelle is certain what he's trying to say - she's been ahead of him for days, wanting to say it herself - but lets him continue. "I'd like to ask for your help."

While some part of her sinks - _really?_ \- she inquires, "With what? Not just housekeeping?"

"No, a bit more important than that. How would you like to assist me with my work?"

Hazelle raises her brow. "You have work?" She instantly regrets the incredulity in her voice but she does have just about every reason to be shocked. The only work Haymitch has ever willingly done as an adult, to her knowledge, was in the rebellion. As a kid, he'd hunt and trade at the Hob with Rohan and Artie, and he and his girlfriend Mollie Hannigan worked for Greasy Sae there as well. But those jobs were to survive, to scrape by in the Seam. After his Quell, all he did was mentor once a year until he was able to bleed that into the uprising.

Haymitch scowls but relents to take a drink of coffee. "I have connections outside the district so I'm setting up for reconstruction, getting us back on the map."

Confused, Hazelle says haltingly, "There's been construction already." She saw it herself this morning.

"Amateur framework from our refugees," he answers with a sort of frustrated, dismissive tone that she doesn't like. "We've got some supplies but no professional workers. There are construction workers, carpenters, electricians, and engineers coming - some merchants later, too. Most likely our friends from Seven will have to amend whatever's been done so far while the people from Three and Five wire up the district."

"Sounds like a good plan," Hazelle allows. "But you know all of this... how exactly?" There's no way he could have managed to know about Twelve's progress in the state he was in when she returned - or even his state currently.

Haymitch shrugs. "I've been filled in on what I haven't seen for myself. Certainly going faster than I thought but that ain't saying much."

"What, did you think there'd still be nothing but ashes? The cleanup took all spring." Even in District Thirteen, Hazelle heard updates on Twelve.

He sighs, rubbing the nape of his neck. "Didn't want to check and be disappointed, I guess."

"You couldn't even notice what was going on down the road? Or right here in the Village?" Hazelle shakes her head, incredulous.

"I don't know! Look, I doubt your world will be shattered when I tell you I drink, and as long as nothing prevents that, I don't think much."

Hazelle doesn't believe that at all. She's cleaned his house for two days and can tell he _was_ thinking, he always is, but those thoughts held him in place. He must've assumed that District Twelve was held in place as well, neither improving nor regressing.

Scrubbing a hand through his hair in frustration, Haymitch tells her, "I'm well aware how ignorant I am at the moment, all right? That's why I need your help. You're more - I don't know - _involved_ so you probably already know more than I do after a day back. Peeta knows enough and he's more than willing to help out but the kid's got a bakery and his damn mind to rebuild. I can't ask Katniss to talk to people because that would be a fucking disaster. You're already working for me so why not just inform me of what you know?"

"You want me to spy on our neighbors at the site or something?"

Haymitch rolls his eyes. "For the greater good of District Twelve, sure. Do whatever you have to do to find out what _I_ need to provide for them so they can make us an actual district again."

Hazelle frowns into her coffee. "I don't see why you can't just go around."

"Hazelle, yes you do." It's the first time Haymitch has spoken her name in a very long time. But before her emotions can rise beyond her throat to her tongue to say something impetuous, she reminds herself he hasn't forgiven her by any means. Even with the sugary coffee, her mouth tastes bitter.

She _does_ understand, too. While Haymitch isn't Capitol by any means, he hasn't really been a part of District Twelve since his homecoming. He could negotiate with officials all he wanted but the people of Twelve might not accept his position. She thinks of Nathaniel, automatically put in charge because of his experience and prestige. Up against Haymitch, he's just a collier. But to the returned refugees, he's one of them, one of their own - and Haymitch isn't, hasn't been for decades. Not even his position in the rebellion could change that.

Hazelle is here to return a favor, anyway. "All right," she agrees. "What's my first mission?"

"Well, the incoming workers need a place to stay. I've no idea who's living in the Village or how much room's left. Know anything about that?"

"Yeah, I went around part of it this morning." Remembering Alice's disappointment in her, Hazelle feels heat rise to her cheeks in rekindled anger and humiliation. By accepting Haymitch's offer, she'll be doing _something_ different now, which assures her some.

"Well, if you could tell me how many people are in each house, I can assign the different teams units and settle all that."

"Okay. I'll go around the whole Village tomorrow before coming here." It would mean arriving to work later but she won't need to spend as much time cleaning, anyway.

"Thanks," says Haymitch, earnestly.

She returns home to the usual fare: Posy plays, stacking up couch cushions and jumping on them, while Vick reads and Rory sulks about the kitchen preparing dinner.

"You didn't eat here," Rory remarks. He takes a plate out of the refrigerator, and before he sets it on the table for her, Hazelle tells him to put it back and that she can finish dinner herself.

As she sends him out of the kitchen, there's a knock on the door that Rory answers. It's Greasy Sae. She sits herself down at the kitchen table. Vick moves his reading into the study and Rory retreats upstairs to his room whereas Posy suddenly wants to help stir the soup. Hazelle lifts her onto the counter to sit near the stovetop.

"Not too fast," she warns, and Posy nods and stirs the soup steadily, her eyes flickering toward the old woman with curiosity. As Hazelle supervises, she tells Sae, "Gale's in Two."

"Oh, I know; I see him on the television," Sae answers. "You must be very proud."

Hazelle nods graciously. Her son is changing the world for the better, and it's amazing enough that he finally has the opportunity. But she's not sure what else to say; she and Sae Crowley have never been close. She associates her with the Hob, that seedy black market Rohan and Gale and Katniss traded at. She'd been as stoically outraged as anyone in the Seam when it burnt down, though mostly because it signaled the crackdown on Twelve. She held no love for the place otherwise.

"It's nice to see some more children around here," Sae says. "My Annalise must be bored with just the two younger Grant boys, Katniss, and Peeta."

"Momma, it's bubbling." Posy lets go of the spoon and scoots away.

Hazelle takes the pot off the burner, then tells Posy to get her brothers. Remembering the loaf Haymitch let her take home, she pulls open a drawer to retrieve a knife. "Haven't seen Katniss around yet. Is she hunting again?"

Shaking her head slowly, wisps of fine hair silver beneath the kitchen lights, Sae lowers her voice. "As much as she can nowadays. Hasn't been the same since the Capitol, of course."

Hazelle purses her lips as she cuts into the bread. The last time she saw Katniss was the news coverage of her and Haymitch leaving the Capitol after her trial. She looked ill, lost, not at all like the girl Hazelle knew. The last time she'd seen her in person was in Thirteen, before Katniss' deployment.

"Poor girl, what with her sister," continues Sae. "Such a loss for Verbena, too." Indeed, that brings a wave of grief over Hazelle, as both a mother and someone genuinely fond of Primrose. She and Verbena may have their differences but they are good friends, and they love each other's children as well.

"To sacrifice their own children to harm our medics…" Hazelle clears her throat. "I mean, we were used to the Capitol using our children against us by then. I won't pretend to understand war but I thought even they knew when enough's enough."

"Apparently not." Something in Sae's tone bothers Hazelle, as if she is withholding a secret. "I don't suppose you've spoken to Gale about this?"

Hazelle looks up from slicing the bread. "No, not really. Why?"

Sae rises from the chair, her old Seam eyes grim. As the children near the kitchen, she says, "Like you said, some folks don't know the line when they risk innocent lives for their own gain. But I guess some know not to tell," and leaves in time for dinner.


	5. Waylaid by the Past

A week since the arrival of the guild workers, Haymitch figures it's time to head into Town to inspect what's been done so far under the new instruction. He had a general idea of what he'd be working with when he hired them, and Hazelle helped him assign them houses, but now Haymitch has to actually see the district's condition for himself and go from there. He still feels a little guilty shoving more responsibility onto Hazelle but she rose to the occasion pretty eagerly, even offering to meet the workers at the train station and direct them to their living quarters.

With the improved work underway, Haymitch is more confident to start negotiating with the people of his own district; he has something to show for himself now concerning reconstruction. He's been avoiding this for too long, facing the people he fought a revolution for.

Peeta visits with bread, and Haymitch joins him on his delivery, planning to follow him into Town. As they deliver bread around the Village, the boy converses with the customers so cordially that Haymitch feels even more out of place than if he just went around by himself. Then again, what could he say to them? _Hey, sorry I was too drunk to do anything useful ever since we won the war but I've been nagged into planning better working conditions because what you're doing ain't enough. Nice to meet you._ At least he has something to do, even if it's as simple as handing out bread.

Apparently his geese are better known to the community than himself. He's advised by a few of his neighbors to build a coop and maybe even a fence and to not leave them unsupervised so often. He replies that he'll try his best, sounding a little too earnest to be genuine. After that, he's even more silent and withdrawn. Still, he remembers names he's heard before and assigns them to the faces that glance at him warily.

They arrive at the last occupied house in the Village, the Hawthornes', where a Seam boy he knows is either Rory or Vick answers the door, a little groggy but dressed. While the kid rubs at his eyes, a little girl - Posy, Haymitch remembers - gets Peeta and Haymitch both to smile as she inspects each loaf and finally decides on the best one. The chosen loaf looks kind of misshapen to Haymitch but she affirms that it's perfect for her family.

"Thank you," Rory-Vick calls out as Haymitch and Peeta depart. Haymitch hears Posy ask something, then Rory-Vick tell her, "Yes, that's him. Now quit staring," as he's closing the door.

Not sure what to think of that, he doesn't, choosing instead to take a drink from his flask.

"Thanks for helping, by the way," Peeta says to him as they walk down the road to the site. Haymitch can hear the work sounds, and some part of him wants to turn back. For all his reasons to be a little nervous, though, his obligation to help outweighs it. "Usually I take several trips with the one basket."

"Don't worry about it," Haymitch replies, adjusting his hold on the other basket. "Why not have them come to you, though? They know where you live."

The boy shrugs. "I like the extra work. There ain't much else to do once I'm done baking, and I can always use the exercise." He smiles. "I just feel that I should deliver to them, especially the workers. Besides, this way I'm leaving a good impression for when the bakery opens."

Haymitch chuckles. "Kiss-ass. Not like you'll have competition."

"Some fancy baker from One ain't stealing my business," Peeta says, grinning. He waves to a boy Haymitch doesn't know. "Morning, Aiden. Any mail for me this week?"

Aiden, who carries a bag ostensibly filled with mail, gestures to the Village. "You'll find out when you get home!"

"What, you don't read through them beforehand?"

Aiden rolls his eyes and laughs, offering another wave as he continues up the road. Peeta either ignores or doesn't notice Haymitch's expression.

"Now that's just pathetic," Haymitch remarks.

"Ain't  _you_ trying to make friends?" counters Peeta. "If anything, you should be taking notes."

"Didn't mean you, boy."

"Oh."

"I didn't even know we get _mail_."

"It wasn't a huge development or anything," says Peeta. "The train delivers any letters with everything else."

"Yeah, I understand that." Haymitch sighs. It all makes sense, it's just frustrating being so ignorant to all of it. He doesn't say that, though; he's already beginning to tread on dangerous territory, prodding a concern that has such an obvious solution that he does not - _cannot_ \- permit himself to consider. But Peeta knows this and doesn't judge as harshly as Katniss. Hell, he waited by the door as Haymitch filled his flask in the kitchen earlier.

They've been talking together more, Peeta and Haymitch, ever since the boy's rescue. Initially, it was for Peeta's recovery after the hijacking. But as the boy's mind became clearer he noticed how truly fucked up and desperately protective his mentor was, and so he probed at Haymitch in return. Haymitch figured talking about himself would open Peeta up, and it's actually worked well for the boy so Haymitch doesn't mind sharing the safe parts.

At this point, the boy may even know more about Haymitch's family than the girl, though Katniss knows why they're dead. Haymitch dreads when he'll run out of memorable quirks and stories, when all Peeta has left to ask is, _what happened? Where did these characters in your stories go?_

As they near the site, the work sounds Haymitch heard down the road intensify and soon they're surrounded by the din of construction. There are stands on the outskirts by the train station for rations and supplies and the like. Further into what used to be the Town are the foundations of several buildings, all in varying degrees of progress, none of them close to completion.

A group of workers approaches them from their place inside the framework of what appears to be the new Justice Building, judging by its size and location in the center of the site.

"Ah, I was wondering when you'd get here," a young Seam man says to Peeta as he claps him on the back. Haymitch recognizes the man as Thom, whose father Jack Chadwick had been a friend of his, though their friendship dissolved before Jack settled down. Thom was there when Gale Hawthorne was whipped two winters ago.

"Yeah, yeah, just take the bread," Peeta jokes. Thom and his workmates laugh, then wait as Peeta and Haymitch hold out the baskets and pass out the warm loaves.

Haymitch is thanked and greeted by several of the new workers, even the ones from the Capitol. He doesn't quite know how to respond so he just awkwardly nods back. Politeness even amidst recognition from complete strangers is a new, odd thing that he surmises is a result of the rebellion. No one from Twelve exhibits such a pretense, and Haymitch _does_ expect that. The native workers who've been rebuilding their district without him only take bread from Peeta. Haymitch showered the night before at Hazelle's request so he must reek of something fouler than alcohol, like failure or disappointment - pariah.

As Thom tears his loaf of bread to share with another worker, a light-haired woman from Thirteen named Rem, he asks Peeta and Haymitch what they think of the improvements.

"That's actually why I'm here," replies Haymitch. "I collaborated with Plutarch Heavensbee and several district officials on hiring skilled workers. I'm willing to provide for the district in any way I can."

Thom looks Haymitch over, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Well, I speak on behalf of the crew that we appreciate the service. So you're here to report to Heavensbee what we need?"

"I'm able to help without him; this ain't really his job. He's too busy with other projects to be involved in everything we do," Haymitch explains, hoping he didn't draw much attention to _we_ by either mumbling or emphasizing it. "Is there someone here who can give me the rundown before and after the new workers?"

"Over there's the overseer," offers Rem, nodding toward a tent where several workers from different districts are hunched over something.

Around a mouthful of bread, Thom says, "He's had a hand in almost everything since early spring."

"Props to him," approves Haymitch. "Is he a native?" Leading cleanup and reconstruction is an intimidating task. Anyone willing to do both must have a love for the place.

"Yeah, he was a mining captain - Captain Carter."

By now they're walking toward the tent. Haymitch stops short. "Carter?" he repeats.

The overseer - a man from the Seam - is turned away from them but Haymitch notices the dark waves of hair. His stomach lurches and sinks with dread, and there's the tug of longing as well but it's for the past, not this particular ghost from it.

Upon hearing his surname, Nathaniel turns and immediately levels a cool look at Haymitch. After a few words to the others, Nathaniel steps out of the tent and up to Haymitch, who stays rooted in place with the fucking bread basket. They're close enough to embrace, Haymitch stupidly muses, knowing that there will be no such family reunion.

"Well, look who's out and about."

"Nathan."

"Mitchie."

Haymitch bristles at the old - damn near _ancient_ \- nickname. He hates himself for wanting to pull out his flask, knowing he'll need to be as sober as possible to face one of his last surviving relatives with any kind of dignity. He clears his throat. "Just here to see how everything's going so far."

Nathaniel glances back at the other leaders in the tent. "We're doing fine, no thanks to you. How about you head back to your fancy-ass house and let us get back to work?"

Without thinking, Haymitch snaps, "You know, I sent them and I'm paying them so you can thank me for that. Don't worry; you'll still get my money in a way - and by extension so will people who actually deserve it."

"Your allowances never meant shit to me," Nathaniel growls. Haymitch can discern the family resemblance despite their different lifestyles. They both have straight, sturdy noses - Nathaniel's now slightly crooked from a past fracture - low-slung brows, and black curls - Haymitch's more so. These traits Haymitch inherited from his mother, and Nathaniel from his father, who were siblings. They don't share the Abernathy surname, and that's made one of their lives much easier.

Haymitch feigns mock concern. "I was never notified of your cancellation."

"We stopped receiving them after Thread came."

"Again, not a word from any of you."

Though he's several years younger, Nathaniel shows his age more than Haymitch does; the lines carved into his face crease deeply as he glowers at Haymitch. "It didn't matter by that point. Money wouldn't have done shit when the lot of us were flogged or hanged by that new Head or blown up later."

At that, Haymitch loses a bit of his sardonic reserve toward his cousin. He didn't know that, they gave him no reason to know that, about _anything_ in their lives. They were just silent recipients of his monthly allowances, and while legally they were his kin, he was no longer considered theirs. 

"That was out of any of our control," Haymitch hears Peeta say behind him. The boy steps closer and takes Haymitch by the elbow. "We need to focus," he says, his face a mix of confusion toward Haymitch and displeasure at Nathaniel.

Given time to collect himself, Haymitch nods. "He's right. I really am here to help, Nathan."

Nathaniel breathes through his nose, slow and heavy, acquiescing for the sake of Twelve. "So you're something of a liaison, and anything we need, we tell you and you'll get it for us?"

"More or less, and within reason."

They consider each other for a moment before Nathaniel nods back toward the tent, where the others have continued discussion. "We're comparing the blueprints Thirteen originally gave us with what Seven brought."

With a glance at Peeta, who relieves him of the basket and steps back with intent to leave, Haymitch musters his courage and joins his cousin inside. "Let's get to work, then."

 

When she finally hears a human voice instead of the insipid music, Hazelle lifts her forehead from her arm that's braced against the wall and stands straighter. "Yes," she answers hurriedly. "Uh, Hazelle Hawthorne - trying to reach my s - Gale Hawthorne."

She's told by the receptionist - or his own personal secretary? - that Mister Hawthorne is unavailable at the moment. Would she like her to leave a note?

"Yes, please." Hazelle feels herself deflate; she'd been on hold for ten minutes, and she thought that somehow meant he was there or else they wouldn't keep her so long. She recites, for the third time that week, her message to her son: _Please call me back when you have time. We need to talk_. When Hazelle hangs up the phone, she sighs and turns back to the stresses of her other children.

Rory's washing the dishes, Posy's watching television and probably falling asleep, and Vick is flitting around the house with his bag and a wide smile that barely lessens as he jabbers on about his plans for tonight.

"Still busy?" Rory asks her.

"Yes, but he'll call back as soon as he can. The load in the dryer should be done," Hazelle calls as Vick enters the laundry room. He comes out with a pair of socks that he stuffs into his bag. 

"I probably won't need them but you never know."

"Yeah," Rory deadpans, his focus on the sink, "that walk across the street is pretty perilous. You could lose a _shoelace_."

"Oh, hush," reprimands Hazelle. She turns to Vick. "Better safe than sorry."

Vick nods and digs around his bag, assessing its contents. "I should pack the flashlight, shouldn't I?" No one answers because he's already as good as decided. He scampers upstairs.

Rory scoffs under his breath.

"Knock it off," Hazelle warns him. "You know he ain't usually included in this kind of stuff."

"He and Aiden weren't even friends before Thirteen," Rory says, drying a plate with a rag, "and it's just because there's no one else around here their age."

Hazelle crosses her arms. "I don't understand why that's a problem."

"It ain't," her son answers. "But it's annoying how few of us there are."

"Is that an official complaint to return to Thirteen?"

"No, it's a plea for the others there to come back already. We can't repopulate the district by waiting for it to be completely built by a bunch of Capitol workers." The way he says _Capitol_ , Hazelle is reminded of her oldest son, always a revolutionary, but the thought of Gale and his rebellious mindset has something troubling tacked on. Hazelle has tried not to jump to conclusions about what Greasy Sae meant about him, but after a week of unanswered calls, her imagination has spun up rather irrational theories. She hasn't said a word to anyone, of course, in case it's all a misunderstanding or Sae's just misinformed.

Vick calls out from the entry and, after promising Hazelle he'll be careful, leaves for the Grants' to spend the night. Considering Posy doesn't hurry through the house to kiss him goodbye, Hazelle assumes she's fast asleep.

"Well," continues Hazelle, upon the front door closing, "we need people who know what they're doing. As much as our people have worked to clean up, building the Town again requires some professional skill. We're getting help from other districts, too, not just from the Capitol. It's different now."

Rory frowns down at the sink. "But I'll never get to actually help now. I'll be the human pack mule forever."

Hazelle wraps an arm around his shoulders and squeezes, kissing his brow. "I doubt you'll be working down at the site forever. Take advantage of all the new opportunities. Look at your brother, the assistant to the secretary of defense in District Two!"

Grimacing, Rory admits, "I don't want to go so far away."

"Good." She ruffles his hair with a smile. "There are going to be a lot of jobs needed around here, too. You can always learn how to hunt from Katniss," Hazelle suggests as she begins to put away the dried dishes. She doesn't care for the way the kitchen cabinets are organized - evidently the railroad workers who had occupied the house before them didn't think to redecorate the hastily thrown together furnishings - and plans to reorganize when she has more time. She thinks of Haymitch's kitchen, how everything seems to be in its natural place because she constructed the order herself when she was first working there. Perhaps she'll just imitate that system.

Hazelle doesn't notice her son's quiet distress until she replaces the dishes and turns around to find that he hasn't dried any more. "What is it?" she asks.

"Momma," Rory croaks, which sends her over to him immediately. "I can't."

"Rory, what's the matter?" asks Hazelle, both worried and incredulous at his sudden distress. He's an emotional teenager, sure, but he rarely gets this upset.

Rory just shakes his head, finding his way into her neck. He has to crouch, he's gotten so tall. All of her children have done this since infancy, and it only bothers her when it's to hide from something. She has a niggling feeling she knows what her son is hiding from.

"I don't want to see Katniss. I can't. Gale wants me to watch out for her but he - they-"

Hazelle lightly pushes Rory away from her to caress and study his face. "What happened?"

When Rory mumbles that he can't tell her, that he _promised_ Gale, anger flares up in Hazelle at both of them - Gale, for pitting Rory against his conscience, and Rory, for being so loyal to his brother that he'll keep secrets from his own mother.

" _Rory Hawthorne_ ," she says through clenched teeth, and it's enough.

"Gale thinks he killed Prim." At that, Hazelle detaches herself from her son completely, as if his words have burned her. But Rory continues speaking to the floor, "He was involved in those parachute bombs in the Capitol - the ones that went off twice. That was us - or, well, Thirteen - not the Capitol. He said that's why Katniss killed President Coin and why she didn't get executed. And, I don't know, he told me to make sure she was okay but I can't just see her after I know all that, right? I mean, I won't stalk her or anything but I don't want to have to talk to her when she _knows_ about what Gale did."

As he starts to apologize, Hazelle shushes him. "You didn't do anything wrong," she assures him. "How long have you known about this?"

"The first night we got here, when Gale called."

Hazelle grimaces, all the pieces fitting into place in the puzzle of her mind and forming an unpleasant picture. She glances over to the living room to make sure Posy hasn't woken up before turning to Rory again. Her voice soft, she says, "You don't worry about Katniss. I'll talk to Gale and tell him they have to work it out themselves. He shouldn't have dragged you into this."

"But," Rory starts, then bites his lip. After a breath, he persists, "What's this mean for Gale? Is he… bad?"

Honestly, Hazelle isn't certain about her oldest son's intentions. Gale thrived in wartime, using his dormant intelligence, insight, and passion to help the rebel cause. Yet how far had he gone to expedite the war? While he spares her the details of his work in Two since it would sound like a jumbled mess to Hazelle, she wonders whether he's kept anything else from her. Minutes ago Hazelle wanted to talk to him about what Sae could possibly have meant, and now she just wants to make sure his soul is still intact.

For now, though, she tells Rory what she does know: "Your brother's grown up a lot these past few years, and he's had to make some decisions that we'll likely never face. I trust that whatever he was thinking at the time ain't what we think it is. He must feel guilty if he asked you to check on Katniss."

"If he calls back, what'll we do?" asks Rory, his brow furrowed, already determined to fix things. Maybe Gale had the same response to the bombings, whatever happened there - staring the future consequences in the face with a mind already at work.

It must run in the family.

"I'll take care of it."


	6. Neighbors

Clouds cloak and darken the morning sky as though it's earlier than it really is. Hazelle fell asleep listening to torrents pounding on the roof and awoke several minutes after her alarm clock sounded. Now she hurries down the pathway from the house as she chews the last bit of her slice of bread smeared with goat's butter.

Hazelle suppresses any worry over being late; she dictates her own work schedule. It's just a matter of where the sun is in the sky when she heads home to her children. Within her first week working for Haymitch, Hazelle cleaned months' worth of accumulated mess in a few full days. Now a regular day consists of doing the dishes and the laundry and preparing meals. She dusts, polishes, sweeps, and mops when needed. Overall, the work is much more manageable and only takes a few hours.

The current state of that _other_ plan of hers is still in progress. They aren't friends by any means. Whenever they talked, it was about whatever else the district needed, give or take some small talk. She still liked those days, making breakfast, drinking coffee with him, and leaving the house cleaner with food for her children and a mission to help the community. However, a few days ago Haymitch began to venture down to the construction site himself to meet with the supervisors there. Needless to say, he doesn't ask much of Hazelle anymore. She expected as much but still feels disappointed; it was so refreshing to help in a way she normally doesn't.

Gale had said it was people like Hazelle who would rebuild the district. She's sure he meant the diligent working class type; all she was contributing then was mended clothes and one man's clean house. Now she can say a bit more than that, how she directed the new teams of workers into spare rooms throughout the Village and eased their transition to Twelve's underwhelming condition. Hazelle wishes Gale knew that.

She also wishes he would call her back so she could properly straighten the situation with Rory out. Hazelle wills herself to not think about Gale until he's either right in front of her or on the phone with her. In the meantime, as excruciating as it is, there's nothing else she can do. She can't bring herself to confront Greasy Sae; she's afraid she'll make matters worse by saying too much, too viciously. It's mostly painful for Hazelle to know her son not only kept a sin like this from her but burdened Rory with it as well.

As she enters Haymitch's house, Hazelle is greeted by sounds from the kitchen. She goes to state her arrival; it's not wise to startle him. Whenever she comes while he's still asleep, she exaggerates her movements somewhat noisily so he knows upon awakening that there is a housekeeper rather than an intruder in his house.

Peaking into the kitchen, she only sees Peeta Mellark moving about. The blond young man slightly startles when he sees her. "Hello, Missus Hawthorne." He picks up a cardboard box from the table and crumples it between his hands before stuffing it into the garbage bin. "Just restocking for him. I was already at the train station getting more flour, and I saw another shipment came in."

There are shiny new liquor bottles in the cabinet. Hazelle frowns at the sight. She should have noticed his alcohol supply was dwindling; Haymitch has been less heavily drunk lately. She hoped it was due to all the work. "Not part of our rations, are they?"

Peeta shakes his head with a sad, knowing look. "I think Haymitch is the only reason alcohol's still sent here. Anyone else would have to place an order and wait forever."

"Is Haymitch here?"

"No, he's over at Katniss' for breakfast," answers Peeta.

"Oh," is all Hazelle says.

"I'm going over there after I finish delivering the orders to scrape up what leftovers I can. I might have to fight Buttercup for them," he jokes.

"I can make you something," Hazelle offers though she'd rather not.

"Nah, I can cook for myself. Honestly, I just like spending time with Haymitch and Katniss when they're both in a good mood, which is when they're eating."

Hazelle snorts but his presence leaves her a bit uneasy. Peeta and Katniss' televised romance hurt Gale, and so she never supported it much. It doesn't incline her to be particularly chummy with Peeta, either. Still, they're neighbors now, and she's darned his socks and he's baked her family bread, and it's not as though he isn't a nice boy.

"Hey, Missus Hawthorne?" Peeta asks, hesitantly. "I want to tell you how glad I am that you're doing this." He gestures around the house. "You seem to have a better effect on Haymitch than any of us; he's doing a lot better lately."

"I don't coddle him," Hazelle points out. She's his housekeeper, not some kind of wet-nurse.

"No, but you didn't have to work for him again, and you are. I don't know, he just seems more put together. Two weeks ago, I couldn't imagine him getting involved in the reconstruction like he is now. He was pretty bad off before you returned." At Peeta's grimace, Hazelle realizes he spent months here to witness Haymitch's decline - yet he had all that time to help. She says as much.

"All I've done is clean his house. If that's all it took for him to put himself together, I don't like what that says about this place before I got here." She purses her lips, taming the rise in her temper. The first time she worked for Haymitch, they had the excuse of not being present in his life for the previous twenty-odd years. While it's nobody's job to save Haymitch from himself, anyone who cares about him should notice that he doesn't quite do well on his own without any support.

Peeta shifts uncomfortably. "It's always been like this between us. He doesn't - we're still his tributes to him. He helps us, and he doesn't really let us help him. I mean, I don't think he lets anyone in but..." Hazelle raises a brow at him, and he sighs and continues, "You knew each other, didn't you?"

Hazelle looks away, willing him to leave so she can work. She tries to shrug indifferently. "Lots of people knew each other around here. He and Greasy Sae did."

"Only while he worked for her in the Hob." At Hazelle's shocked expression, Peeta explains, "He told me. He's been telling me more about himself, his past - but he barely mentions any friends."

For good reason, Hazelle thinks with remorse. The stories Haymitch has left of his family are preserved in - presumably obliterated - coffins whereas the memories of his friends were stained over the years as they lived their lives decidedly away from him. Mollie died alongside Haymitch's mother and younger brother, and at least they died still loving him. Rohan and the rest are gone, with only herself left.

Hazelle and Rohan had to abandon Haymitch the night of the executions. Years later, Rohan drove him away from assisting the wounded in the Square before a grieving father tried fighting Haymitch off himself. After that incident, they never really spoke of Haymitch again. They found they couldn't muster empathy or hatred without feeling guilt in some way, the betrayal of either blaming an old friend who was traumatized beyond their comprehension or excusing a drunkard who no longer tried to save the children of their district. Their mutual silence was a kind of abeyance, loving the boy Haymitch was and not understanding the man he became but knowing they couldn't have learned, anyway.

But Hazelle is _willing_ to learn now.

"Were you one of them?" Peeta asks.

She nods, biting her lip.

Understanding loosens his face a little. Now he looks away. "What happened?"

"If he hasn't told you himself," Hazelle says carefully, "it definitely ain't my place to share." Honestly, she couldn't bear to relay the night of the arrests, the executions.

Nodding, as if he already anticipated that answer, Peeta mumbles, "Sorry. I don't think I even want to know." He picks up a nearby picture frame of a boy playing soccer. Hazelle knows it's Cory; Haymitch always slipped on the ball. "But when I keep hearing about them and seeing them, it's hard not to be curious. I won't ask about them again."

"It's okay," says Hazelle. She moves over to the pictures, wanting another look at them. "He's told you a lot about them?" When Peeta nods, so does she. "That's good. I didn't think he could." Then again, she never thought he'd openly recognize his loved ones ever again, and here they are in their clean frames.

"Well, he must have been ready. Maybe he'll tell the rest when he's ready for that, too."

Hazelle frowns, remembering the other week, how bold she had been asking about these pictures. She should listen to the boy. Perhaps Haymitch isn't ready to be friends again. She considers that maybe Gale isn't ready to tell her about the dark side of his work but remembers Rory and the news coverage of the parachute bombings, and she rejects the thought. The situations are entirely different.

"You really have no idea what happened?" she can't help but ask.

Peeta hesitates. "I have my theories but I could never bring up the conversation without forcing it onto him, especially when his past seems everywhere lately. There's, well, you and Mister Carter-"

"Mister Carter?"

"The one overseer," says Peeta. "They know each other somehow."

Knitting her brows, Hazelle tries to place their connection. As she stares at a photo of Haymitch's mother, her solemn gray eyes staring back, she realizes. "Carter. That was his mother's maiden name. Rayan Carter." Haymitch and Nathaniel are related, then. Unless her memory is wrong, that means Artie Everdeen was a distant relative as well.

"Well, from what I saw, they ain't particularly fond of each other." Peeta turns to her. "But at least he has us, right?"

Hazelle searches for something noncommittal to say without sounding too dismissive. "Yeah, he adores you and Katniss." Peeta looks down to smile bashfully, and any iciness Hazelle feels toward the boy melts. She tells him, "It's a custom in the Seam that neighbors look out for each other, and we're all neighbors now."

"Thank you, Missus Hawthorne - really." He nods toward the front door. "I should probably go."

Hazelle smiles. "See you around, Peeta."

After he leaves, she finds herself standing by the photos in the foyer. In a minute she will head for the laundry room, where she has to unload the wash she started before she left yesterday, but for the moment Hazelle considers the faces of her own past before her, lost to fate and time and, ultimately, death.

 

The spatula smacks Haymitch's hand hard. "Hey!" He rubs his hand, looking forlornly from Sae to the plate of bacon on the counter next to her.

Sae chuckles as she continues to fry the eggs in the pan. "Serves you right, boy. You're waiting and eating at the table like everybody else."

"Nobody would mind," he mutters but it's no use arguing with the old woman. Working with her as a kid, Haymitch knows Sae Crowley is only generous until she's not. She may have permitted him and Mollie to help her run her stand when they were younger but they earned every coin she could spare, which wasn't many.

With a glib tone, Katniss says, "This is my house, and I declare that there shall be no stealing." She pets her ugly tomcat on her lap, and their smirks match.

"And yet poaching is allowed?" counters Haymitch, shooting her a look while reaching for his glass on the table. He'd brought the bottle over to Katniss' but Sae insisted he use a glass. Whatever. He sips it once.

Katniss shrugs, scratching the fine hair under Buttercup's chin. "You can have whatever you take down yourself."

"So now I need to shoot one of the Grants' piglets?" He smirks at her annoyed scowl, shaking his head. "Don't ever go into law, sweetheart."

Sae sighs. "I guess we should be happy you're eating; it took you longer than Katniss to realize it wasn't going to kill you."

"Never know for sure with your cooking." He accepts the reciprocating slap to his shoulder. Katniss chuckles a little, having tasted Sae's rather inventive soups in the Hob as well.

She's filling out again, her hips and waist more padded than a mere few weeks ago. Her olive skin has returned to its normal complexion from spending time in the sun again, though it's not as tanned as it could be, which is more than Haymitch can say for himself. His jaundice hasn't faded, and though he's gained back some weight, he still looks drawn. 

Sae scrapes at the sizzling pan. "From the looks of you, it's been Hazelle who gets the plates licked clean."

"Right, sure," Haymitch appeases, albeit sarcastically. He humored Sae and the kids by always accepting the constant loaves and meaty stews that showed up in his kitchen, though much of it went to waste - he blamed their overestimation of his appetite outside of alcohol. Whenever Hazelle prepares food at his house, Haymitch eats enough to avoid issue yet knowing she takes the rest home to her children.

"You do look better now," Katniss offers, trying to be nonchalant. Haymitch stifles the reflexive retort in his throat with another drink. It's unnerving whenever she lets on that she cares about him. Haymitch grudgingly accepts that the girl's grown on him - as has the boy - but any requital is pointedly disregarded; they don't have anyone else left except him, the poor kids. After clearing her throat, Katniss asks, "Where's Annalise?"

Looking over her shoulder, Sae replies, "In the living room. Anna! Breakfast is ready."

The girl, eleven years old at most, scampers in holding a book. She offers it to her grandmother with outstretched arms, not getting too close. Haymitch notices Katniss considering her with confusion as well as pity. Her expression changes to slight alarm, and she rises from her seat, setting the cat down.

"That's mine," Katniss tells Sae, who's taken the book from Annalise but hasn't opened its pages - only Katniss, Peeta, and Haymitch have done that. When Sae gives it back to her, Katniss grips it and looks over the cover, checking for damage probably. 

"Oh, she didn't hurt your precious book," Haymitch says, rolling his eyes. Annalise may be simple but she's harmless enough. Haymitch saw her around the Hob sometimes whenever Sae had to look after her, huddled behind the counter fiddling with the yo-yo that Darius, one of the more tolerable Peacekeepers, had given her once. He wonders whether Annalise saved the toy during the firebombing, or whether Darius' gift came with lessons. The little girl seemed to appreciate it regardless but she doesn't carry it now.

His next drink is for Darius, who tried defending Gale at his flogging only to become an Avox servant used to threaten Katniss during the Quell, then torment Peeta during the war. It's not the first time Haymitch has wordlessly toasted him.

Katniss doesn't bother glaring at him. She flips through the few finished pages briskly yet carefully, pausing on her sister's page. As always, Primrose Everdeen grins at her pet goat licking her cheek. Katniss' fingers brush the other painted cheek.

Haymitch averts his eyes, remembering his own pictures at home. He understands needing the assurance that the memories haven't been distorted. While Peeta's drawings are reliable, Haymitch knows the only other picture Katniss owns is of her parents. Without the book, she'd have no other remnant of her sister's appearance. The only reason Haymitch has his pictures is because his mother worked for the photographer in Town, who rented a camera to her occasionally.

Sae frowns at Katniss as she scoops the eggs from the pan onto plates, her drooping eyes pinched with quiet anger. Haymitch raises his brow at Sae in question, and she shakes her head and expresses her anger aloud. "It ain't right, what happened."

Looking up from the book, which has replaced Buttercup on her lap now as she begins to eat, Katniss asks, "What ain't right?"

"You know what," huffs Sae, and, chastised, Katniss focuses her attention on Annalise, who isn't concerned with illegal war tactics or dead civilian children as she picks off the ribbons of fat from her bacon and eats the strip of meat left. Katniss doles out a leftover morsel for Buttercup.

Haymitch sighs. "I never should've told you about that." He was more than a bit drunk the day he felt that he had to explain why exactly Sae needed to watch over Katniss, and the parachutes were among the many rambled reasons. "You of all people know not everything that happens is right."

"There should still be consequences," Sae says.

"We didn't have a fair balance of those before, now did we?" He smirks at her, crunching into a bacon strip. "Look at you, suddenly the activist."

"Don't get smart with me," she warns, wielding her spatula.

"Stop." Katniss has closed her eyes, tensed her shoulders.

Haymitch pats her forearm that's laid on the table. "It's all right, sweetheart. We're done talking about it," he adds pointedly to Sae.

"The poor girl can't have any time to rest without something from the past slapping her full in the face," grumbles Sae, placing the pan and spatula in the sink. "She was banished here. What excuse could that woman possibly have for returning here as well?"

"Sae-"

Katniss stands up. "I said _stop!_ " she yells, then runs out of the house. Haymitch quit trying to go after her since their time in the Presidential Mansion. She forgot her boots so she can't go very far, anyway.

He glares at Sae. "Why do I get the feeling you've run your mouth about this before?"

She lifts her chin. "Because you know when you're right." As Haymitch holds his head, groaning, she explains, "Hazelle didn't even know the Capitol wasn't responsible, and I didn't want her treating Katniss like everything was fine and dandy when it ain't - so I told her just enough."

"And I'm sure she was _so_ glad you took it upon yourself to inform her that her golden child is a war criminal."

"Somebody had to, and only a few of us know."

" _You_ weren't even supposed to know." No one was, really, for Coin's plan to work. Fortunately, Katniss did. As if to highlight the very error that started this mess - well, in _his_ case - Haymitch refills his glass and then just swigs from the bottle. His earlier appetite still intact, he eats faster in his annoyance.

"No one else had to know except her. Parents should be reminded their kids ain't perfect every now and then." From what Haymitch knows about Sae's late son, he assumes the graveness in her expression is from experience. "Though I'd like to think the government is aware and he and the others involved will be properly charged once things have settled."

"Thirteen used his bombs, and their leader is dead. Plutarch knew to broadcast the parachutes, and he has enough power nowadays to enlist _my_ sorry ass into work. There won't be a trial," Haymitch explains dryly. "You're right; what happened and what's happened since ain't giving us as nice a start as we hoped. But don't drag people who weren't involved into this." Haymitch pauses with his bottle halfway to his mouth. "I guess I should apologize, then, for leaving those thoughts in your head."

Sae shrugs. "You've always had that habit. Remember when you told me you wanted to start a rebellion?"

"Hey, I did, didn't I?" replies Haymitch with a chuckle. "You're just an old gossip - who should probably apologize."

With a considerate tilt of her head, Sae suggests, "I could offer some more business with clothes for her to mend, too."

"Hazelle mends?" asks Haymitch.

Sae nods. "She's stayed away from me obviously but she's gone around the Village looking for anything to darn."

Haymitch frowns at this bit of news; he pays Hazelle well enough, and he hopes he never gave the impression that he'd fire her. He wouldn't fuck her over like that, though the irony if he did isn't lost on him.

"She must have figured your stew wasn't a good enough barter," he quips, suppressing all the mixed emotions with humor. He won't mention the extra job to Hazelle, considering she must have more on her mind right now. Haymitch knows she finds solace in work, anyway.

Sae laughs. "I'll trade civilities, then."

"Assure her that the general public isn't meant to know, that you're an anomaly. Blame it all on me, if you want. Just make sure she understands that the vast majority of the country doesn't know something about her family that she didn't, either."

Sae gives her word. Satisfied, Haymitch reaches for another serving of eggs but she reminds him Peeta is still dropping by later. Haymitch dreads telling him why the girl ran off but even though the boy will be disappointed, he won't be surprised. Relapse in any form is as common around here as rain.


	7. Compromise

Even after he relaxes from the terror upon waking, Haymitch has to read his bedside clock twice; he doesn't believe the time at first glance. He sits up, pressing his palms into his eyelids in a hopeless attempt to relieve the familiar throbbing ache behind them. Giving up, he considers the pale light filtering through his window curtains. The clock's right, then: half past six.

He's not used to waking up this early. Back when he didn't loathe sleep, he had a tendency to not awaken unless provoked. Sometimes his mother would resort to leveling breakfast near enough to his face that the smell would rouse him. When there wasn't any breakfast, she'd let Cory jump on him. The memory of his younger brother laughing and shaking him - Haymitch pushes it away, as he would Cory.  _Anyway_ , now he avoids sleep as much as possible and drinks so awaiting the inevitable nightmares doesn't drive him mad.

In District Thirteen, his schedule commenced at seven thirty, and so he woke up about fifteen minutes beforehand to shower, dress, and mentally prepare himself for the mindless bullshit in Command. Unlike the other men, Haymitch didn't have to shave, the past Capitol treatment slowing his facial hair growth considerably. He shaved the night before the Reaping for the Third Quell and then again in the Capitol for Katniss' trial, and by then it had only been heavy stubble. It saved him a lot of time to pull himself together after a long night of fitful rest. The set bedtime there had been something of an ordeal but after his solitary detox in the hospital, Haymitch didn't bother complaining.

His sleeping pattern was the worst while mentoring. Whenever his tributes were still in, he barely slept a few hours at all, hopeless determination and black coffee keeping him upright. That was particularly exhausting during the kids' Games, where he was moderately sober and on duty through the whole damn thing - though he'd only felt fierce, gruff pride at their lack of elimination.

On a very bad night, without any responsibility, his stupor can last until the next evening. Otherwise, he's up and about by late morning at the earliest. Yesterday wasn't a bad day, but it wasn't great either; he drank at the usual rate after completing his work for the day.

Of course, work has challenged his usual routine, which explains his early rising today. He's honestly had to schedule drinking around answering calls and visiting the construction site. Everyone suddenly wants his company. After eating breakfast with the kids and Sae, he delivers bread orders with Peeta, which transitions into inspecting the site and talking with the overseers there. Nathan tolerates him enough since they operate professionally rather than familiarly. When Haymitch gets home, he directs any of the districts' needs to his contacts. After that, he can drink - but by then he's exhausted.

Haymitch peels off the thick layer of blankets. Somehow summer doesn't warm his chill much. In the winter, he burrows under old quilts and blankets. Sliding out of bed and trudging into the bathroom, he scratches at his chin, decides to shave the slight bristle there.

As warm water from the shower beats against his back, Haymitch mentally outlines his objectives for today and remembers that District Twelve will have a doctor soon. How nobody has died yet with only first-aid supplies is beyond him. Haymitch is expecting a call today for the details. Initially, his only candidates were the doctors who treated the kids and himself in Thirteen, and he doesn't particularly like any of them so he contacted Verbena Everdeen, who works at the new hospital in Four.

It's tense between him and Verbena. She'd left her daughter in his care in the Capitol, and while he understood her situation enough that he couldn't blame her, he empathized with Katniss too well to not resent her. Katniss needed her mother last winter more than she needed him or even the boy. She still may but at least now they call each other.

After showering, Haymitch notices the full hamper. Hazelle won't be here for a few hours, and he's got more than enough time to kill. Haymitch takes the lid off and carries the hamper downstairs to the laundry room.

Filling the washing machine, he smirks a little as he remembers he and his family's astonishment toward the thing. They were so surprised at how easy it was to operate, such an upgrade from a washboard, a tub, and lye soap. The other machine, the dryer, is also a step up from a clothesline, where clothes could be stolen or swept away by wind. Knowing this, Haymitch allowed Hazelle to wash her own family's clothes at his house. She probably didn't know how to use them at first, either, but she never asked for his help so he kept away.

As Haymitch waits for the wash and for the call from the hospital, he sits in the living room with a drink. He doesn't really need one now but he figures he will soon. Switching on the television, Haymitch discovers why Plutarch hasn't been among his phone calls lately. A commercial with upbeat music for a new show about a post-war family promises wacky antics and heartwarming themes about family, community, and inner-strength - it has Plutarch written all over it. Haymitch remembers him offering Katniss a role in some singing program after her verdict. Plutarch must have regrouped once he realized she'd never reply, and now he's presenting to the nation a show on how to live when said nation is in shambles.

Haymitch rolls his eyes and switches to the news channel, reconsidering his unopened drink. But the news is only another reminder, with reports of the government scrambling to piece the country back together between weather updates. There are more storms approaching the eastern region, and President Paylor is calling for a constitutional conference in two weeks, for the Hunger Games anniversary. Haymitch suspects he will hear from Plutarch about this again soon.

Watching Paylor on the screen, Haymitch wonders how she could resort to employing the former Head Gamemaker. As critical to the rebellion as Plutarch was, his background as a Gamemaker is stained with the blood of slain children. His current politcal position wouldn't nettle Haymitch so much if it wasn't for his obvious collaboration with Coin in the parachute bombs. He's too powerful nowadays, practically thriving in this trying reconstruction. Perhaps Sae's call for a trial is actually needed. Paylor must be aware but the only war tribunals were for the Mockingjay, Coriolanus Snow, particularly devoted Head Peacekeepers, and various other Capitol officials that the new officials found corrupt. Haymitch is certain Plutarch attended all of them.

Haymitch doesn't consider Plutarch Heavensbee his friend - more as an ally he just barely trusts. During the war, Haymitch tolerated him for his keen revolutionary mindset, and because some of the authority that came with conducting the rebellion went to Haymitch by association. But he doesn't  _want_  to see Plutarch hanged for treason. Haymitch doubts such a verdict will ever be passed anyway. While the right thing to do is to hold Plutarch and whoever else involved accountable, the easiest route is to move beyond it, and Haymitch knows how conflict averse and submissive people can be; they kept the Hunger Games on air, after all.

Frankly, if it wasn't for Plutarch and his damn offer, Haymitch could drink all he wanted without the worry of botching any consultations that could potentially succor Twelve. That's reason enough to resent the man.

With that thought, Haymitch remembers the time again. It's the earliest he's ever been freshly awake - and sober.

Leaning his head back on the couch, considering the ceiling impassively, he mutters to himself, "I'm thinking too much." He shuts off the television and leaves his drink in the living room, then opens a study window to the backyard in case of a phonecall.

Outside, the scattered gaggle watches him approach their overgrown territory in his backyard. "Miss me?" Haymitch holds out a stale loaf, and their reciprocating honks sound somewhat affirmative. "Sure, you did, you hungry bastards."

As he crumbles and scatters the bread, he hears some neighbors talking and moving about. Nathan may be among them, heading for the site.

Haymitch wonders what his cousin's life was like before the war. He appears to be without family - maybe they didn't survive the evacuation? Was he married? Did he have kids, giving Haymitch younger relatives to worry about? Of course, he worried for all the children in District Twelve.

"The book helped," he tells Nisskat, who detests him as much as her namesake does. She's the only one of the six that's tried to attack him, thus the inverted name. "But it didn't save them."

The goose continues to bob and shift around for food, and Haymitch realizes he's being  _really_  pathetic.

Once he finishes distributing the loaf and the gaggle wanders away, satisfied, he heads back into the house. It's not even eight yet. He's supposed to go over to Katniss' house at ten.

Haymitch considers calling Johanna or Annie but decides against it, figuring he shouldn't busy the line while he's waiting for a call. Remembering the mail system, he writes two short letters at his desk instead, asking each of them how they have been and inviting them to call or even visit here. Haymitch feels guilty for not bothering to reach them before but that's nothing new. He didn't have much to say, and now he does. He sets the letters aside to deliver to the train station later.

After changing the laundry and adding towels to the washer, it's still only eight o'clock. He sighs and opens the fucking bottle.

 

When Hazelle arrives at the house, Haymitch is drinking in the living room, a dark curly head above the couch. The television is on mute.

"You're up early," she comments, retrieving a broom from the pantry.

Haymitch makes a noncommittal noise around the bottle.

Since her conversation with Peeta two days ago, Hazelle has been less forward with Haymitch. He isn't particularly talkative during the time they're in the same vicinity, which is only before he leaves for the morning until afternoon, as Hazelle is finishing up for the day or has already left. It's been a relatively easy task keeping her distance - as usual, really.

But then Haymitch turns toward her. Hazelle notices that he has showered and shaved. "You can take the day off," he says from the couch.

Hazelle sweeps the kitchen floor, her brow creased. "I need to do the laundry."

"Already did that."

She glances up with mild surprise. "Well, thanks. But I still need to prepare lunch and wipe down the counters and varnish the banister." That's only a portion of her mental list.

"I can make myself lunch. And who cares about the bannister?"

"I do; I have to clean something." She kneels to lay the dust pan on the floor, and her knees make a snapping sound, an unkind reminder of her age.

"You're aware I don't actually keep track of that, right? I never have. You could come here, spit on the floor, and leave, and I'd still pay you for the day."

Heat rushes to Hazelle's face, and she isn't certain whether it is mostly from anger or embarrassment. "So this is just charity." She would've accepted the money if she desperately needed it but it aggravates her that she's working so hard yet apparently being such an annoyance to him for pay that she'd receive anyway.

"Let's keep in mind you employed yourself. I can do whatever the hell I want. And last time, you needed any payment you could scrounge up. Besides, it's the least I can do," he adds, and the frankness of his words hits Hazelle in the stomach as she stands. She falters both in mind and movement, though the latter is thankfully subtler.

"What do you mean?"

Haymitch shrugs as he tries to balance his bottle on the armrest. "You shouldn't worry about not having enough while I'm around."

Despite the generosity of his sentiment, it's not much of a comfort. Hazelle glowers, thinking him condescending. "I've spent my whole life worrying about that. Times like right now are going to be stressful for people who need to work, who don't have more than enough money. Don't think you alone control whether I can get by because you don't."

Haymitch considers her with pity but it isn't as lofty as Hazelle wishes it to be. She wants to feel rightfully angry with him. She knows it's not fair - he's paid her so well and twice didn't turn her away - but she seethes nonetheless.

"How far can mending get you, Hazelle?" Haymitch asks, and there it is.

"Why do you care all of a sudden?" she exclaims, throwing the broom down and crossing her arms. "Why  _now?_ "

He has risen from the couch and now stalks forward several steps. Hazelle only shrinks back when she sees how steady - sober - he is. "I could ask you the same question." _  
_

Waiting with bated breath, Hazelle looks down at the floor. She doesn't know what she expects - a discharge, maybe. But Haymitch doesn't continue, doesn't move. He stands there and waits for her as well. She chances a glance up. He's frowning at her like she is probably frowning at him, neither of them quite understanding the other.

"We used to be friends," she whispers before she realizes - no, Hazelle knows  _exactly_  what she's doing. She's hidden behind excuses long enough.

Haymitch raises his brow in genuine shock but immediately lowers it into a scowl. "Yeah, used to be. What's that got to do with shit?"

 _You know_ , Hazelle thinks, and by his carefully guarded expression - the one she's seen on television for years - he must. She shrugs, lost in a swirling storm of arguments and counterarguments that she formed in Thirteen, on the train ride here, whenever doubt crept into her mind. "It has to matter for  _something_. You helped me before, like you're helping me now. But... I can help you, too."

He's close enough that she can see his jaw clench, his throat swallow. After a moment of silent tension, his chest hitches with a single humorless laugh. "By cleaning my house? Whatever you think you're doing besides that, you're not. You can't. You don't know anything about me, Hazelle."

Maybe she doesn't know this man anymore but she owes it to him to try. Exasperated, Hazelle replies, "I know that. But what good is it if we keep pretending like we never knew each other when we did? Can't we just  _talk?_ "

"What do we need to talk about?" counters Haymitch. "There's nothing to say. We're different people living different lives, to hell with the past."

"Doesn't mean we can't be friends again."

Haymitch shakes his head in disbelief. "Why is that so important to you?"

"We're the only ones left from back then. I kind of miss you." She tries to shrug nonchalantly. "I owe it to you, too, after - not being there," she stutters.

"You," Haymitch starts, voice low and intimidating, stepping up to her, "don't owe me a damn thing. All right?"

Hazelle lifts her chin and meets his gaze. "You didn't let my family starve, and I didn't deserve that when I spent years avoiding you. That's a mighty debt, Haymitch."

He rolls his eyes and looks over at the television. Whatever he sees captures his attention, and he doesn't turn away until the commercials. He still doesn't face her. "What kind of a deal is that? I give you work and in exchange, you're my friend?" He grimaces at the thought.

"I mean, I want to," Hazelle tells him. The glance Haymitch shoots her shows he suspects otherwise. "I do. Coming here meant coming home, and since the war is over, this can be home again without threats or anything." She hesitates, unsure whether now is the time to apologize. Should she? While she wants to amend things between them, Hazelle doesn't consider having to apologize on behalf of her fifteen-year-old self's fear necessary. She may feel guilty but she doesn't regret it.

"You don't have to prove your case," says Haymitch. "It's just - there's no owing here. You've already done a lot for me, anyway."

Hazelle half-smiles sheepishly. "But was any of it something you actually appreciated?" Haymitch begins to grudgingly award gratitude to her efforts in making his house  _not awful_ , but she interrupts him. "I just think this is a better way to pay the debt - whether you think it's there or not."

He tilts his head in contemplation and even looks ashamed for it. "Just... don't feel like you have to. If we end up hating each other's guts, by all means, let's never speak to each other again. But I'll try not to make that so appealing. Okay?"

Hazelle nods, picks up the broom. "That's all I'm asking for." It's as good an agreement as they'll get.

The telephone rings, and Haymitch sighs. "And that would be the hospital," he mutters more to himself than her. "I have to answer that." Waving his hand at the door, he orders, "Go home," then leaves for the study before either can say anything else.

Hazelle turns to sweep the foyer instead, Haymitch's instruction stubbornly ignored. He must hear her busying herself around the house but his phone call keeps him from reprimanding her.

She's about to check whatever laundry Haymitch already did when he clears his throat behind her. "What you said before, about controlling whether you have a job - well, I want to make sure you know I'd never hold it over your head in some way."

"I know," she says. "It ain't personal, Haymitch. I just feel better this way - more secure, I guess. It wasn't meant to be kept a secret from you or anything - I only figured it wasn't going to be an issue." Someone must have mentioned it to him in passing and Haymitch, of course, worried.

Haymitch sighs. "It ain't an issue. It's wise, really," he admits with a shrug. "Guess I've forgotten about those kinds of worries."

"It's all right." Hazelle raises her brow in wry understanding. "Life in the Seam ain't the happiest memory to retain."

"Well, life as a victor wasn't the best tradeoff." There's an edge in his voice but he adds, softer, "Not much of a contest, though, is it? Both were awful in their own ways."

Nodding, Hazelle is tempted to ask further but doesn't. It's none of her business, especially when they aren't quite friends yet.

"Now about your day off," he starts, and Hazelle laughs. "Really, just take it. I'll finish the damn laundry. We'll go over your schedule and salary and all that tomorrow."

"Fine," says Hazelle, after a moment of deliberation. She can wait until tomorrow. "You know, there's a bonfire tonight. You should come if you want," she offers. She doesn't plan on staying long herself but it's a nice opportunity for the kids to have fun and for her to socialize a bit more than she has lately. She didn't make a lot of friends with the Thirteen natives, and the few from Twelve she knows well have chosen to stay in Thirteen until who knows when.

Haymitch snorts. "Yeah, right, I'm sure I'd be very welcome there." Hazelle starts to protest, bringing up how he's helped them so far, but he shakes his head. "Whatever you're asking of me ain't extended to the rest of them."

Hazelle wants to convince him otherwise but the more she thinks about it, the more she regrets bringing it up with him.

"Don't worry; I bet the girl and the boy weren't invited either so we'll have a fun victors' night in without you."

"Peeta not getting invited?" Hazelle raises a brow knowingly.

"Damn. You're right. I'd rather take my chances with the others, then," quips Haymitch. He passes by her and retrieves a tall bottle from the cabinet, then holds it out to her. "A donation to the district."

Hazelle takes the bottle with caution. "They'll think I stole this."

"See, you could get away with anything  _except_  that," he reminds her but he's smirking. "Have fun."


	8. Oncoming Storm

Hours before sundown, Haymitch regrets giving away a bottle. He's recently restocked but the idea of not having every dram that he may need makes him tremble, an echo of past withdrawal tremors.

He can't determine how violent his thirst will be until it's happening, and all he can feel right now is his entire being yearning for the bottles in his cabinet. That they're put away - so fucking disciplined of him - just reminds him of how _okay_ he's been lately. Sure, he wasn't completely dry but compared to not even a month ago, when he couldn't help the kids like he was supposed to, it's about the soberest he's willingly been since the Quell.

Perhaps a sort of good day entails a full out miserable night; it is a good day - particularly for everyone else in his life.

Hazelle is enjoying a day off. Kicking her out took some patience and effort, and Haymitch honestly considers it an accomplishment. Once they modify her schedule tomorrow, she won't have to work as much and can stay home with her children, live a better life in Twelve.

After the hospital in Four called to specify the whole arrangement of sending in a doctor, which only took about fifteen minutes, Haymitch left for Katniss' house, where he sat and watched her and the boy smile at each other. They don't touch a lot, he's realized, most likely because no one is forcing them to. A year ago, he wouldn't have thought much of it, but those kids determining their own boundaries together softens him. They're such a hopeful sight after the past six months, scarred yet laughing, broken yet healing.

Outside, down the street, the neighbors stack firewood and drag out chairs for the bonfire. Hazelle's extended invitation to him was ridiculously in vain but nonetheless kind of sweet. The workers' progress has improved immensely, and Haymitch was part of that. After ignoring it for months, he's helped the reconstruction of his district along in under a month. But he's still here, not invited or uninvited, shut away because he chooses to yet also because there's not really a choice.

None of it matters, anyway. Haymitch was fooling himself trying to believe otherwise but he knows better than that. He can't turn his life around now. Though the rebellion abolished the Games and established a more just government, it didn't solve much of anything for him. Haymitch doesn't know what he was expecting - closure? some kind of reward after a life of misery? death? - but he's disappointed. If he can't even find fulfillment in himself or acceptance from others in a fucking revolution, why would working as some provisional intermediary do any better?

His thoughts overwhelming him, he sucks the dregs from his umpteenth bottle. The drink numbs him to his core and outward. His mind stills just a bit more, and he welcomes it.

Haymitch, all too aware that his present thirst exceeds the limit he's set for himself, dares the balance to break - and it's then he realizes how out of control he is. He's searching for a reason, a cause, a trigger... but comes up short. Really, he just doesn't want to blame anyone but himself. Nobody should hide or be ashamed of their happiness around him. It's not their fault he's such an irreparable mess of a man.

Why Hazelle wants to befriend him, he has no fucking clue. Though he humored her by accepting her offer, Haymitch would prefer if she'd just use him for work like last time so he could help her out while still keeping his distance. The whole point of their estrangement was to keep her safe, and while that threat died with Coriolanus Snow, Haymitch still doesn't understand why that brought her back. Surely she wasn't waiting. No one else did, he's certain. Then again, there's no one else left to wait - Hazelle had a point there but that's no reason to seek _him_ out.

She said she missed him, too, and Haymitch had to ignore the desperate tug of his heartstrings when he heard that. To retaliate, he practically growled that she wasn't indebted to him but Hazelle didn't seem deterred. All her talk of repayment concerns him. Haymitch has a feeling her sense of owing him is all that's spurring her rather pathetic attempt at friendship.

The day off will clear her mind.

Maybe she'll give up when he's beyond hungover tomorrow and she sees that there's nothing left for her to find in him. No one else has looked much over the years, except two kids who keep mining away at him, discovering for themselves what little there really is. But their disappointment isn't much of a shock; they have nothing to compare to.

The boy Hazelle knew didn't vanish when he was reaped, but when he reached the Town Square in time to see his mother shot in front of him, the third and final execution of that confused, disorderly firing squad. Hazelle was there, as was a good portion of the district. She, Rohan Hawthorne, and Haymitch's other friends stayed with him until his mentor came and ordered them home. Hazelle left without much convincing.

Haymitch didn't think about it then - he couldn't process much of anything at the time, frankly - but later he stayed awake at night wondering whether she and the others paused at the sight of the three corpses on their way home. He imagined they did, their faces grim as they realized Snow's underlying punishment was meant for Haymitch alone so long as they kept away from him. They must have reached that conclusion soon enough, considering the lack of contact afterward.

From the kitchen table, Haymitch doesn't dare look toward any of the pictures of the dead. Even though he sees them enough in his nightmares, they're never as whole or undisturbed as they are captured in the photos. Tonight he almost regrets excavating them from his basement months ago. He can't bring himself to take them down, mostly because standing upright, let alone walking, seems damn impossible. But their presence reminds him of his remorse, and so they will visit Haymitch when sleep defeats him, and they won't look half as pleasant as their photograph selves.

Terror seizes him as he remembers what happens to them, to him, to others not yet dead during sleep. He'll just have to ease it the only way he knows how.

He opens up a full bottle already knowing it won't be enough.

 

With all the advancements in the reconstruction, the workers deserve a day to relax. The bonfire is meant for all the workers but considering almost everyone in Twelve is involved in the reconstruction, it's virtually a district gathering.

Rory told Hazelle that they were invited. Hazelle was hesitant to agree at first, remembering the firebombs, but her children didn't express any similar concerns, even after individual interrogation. Perhaps time - in sterile, underground District Thirteen, no less - has diminished any urge to falter at the sight of flames, the smell of dense smoke - though she knows it hasn't quite been long enough for her.

She follows as Posy skips ahead of her down the street, her hair flying wildly behind her. Rory lags behind her a bit but Hazelle can sense his hesitant excitement. Lately, the busywork down at the site and the chores at home have been his only activity. Since he didn't join Vick and Aiden, who left earlier, he must not be so bored as to resort to younger company. Hazelle suspects more families will trickle in before fall. Rory can wait for friends his age but getting to know their neighbors better tonight might open him up more.

Hazelle left Haymitch's party gift on her kitchen table. Leaving after their conversation, Hazelle decided that she'd just sneak the bottle back into his cabinet sometime. The bottle of liquor would have felt preposterous in her hand, and it couldn't go around to everyone, anyway. Haymitch probably didn't know how many would attend. Even so, the likes of Nathaniel could somehow interpret it reproachfully. She worried how it would reflect on Haymitch - and also herself.

As they near the glow of fire, set off to the side of the road between the Village and the site, Hazelle tries to discern the illuminated faces around it. A few familiar faces peer back at her and wave, and she smiles and waves back. Because it's summer, the evening is not yet so dark that she cannot recognize a group sitting off to the side, away from the fire - the Grants, Nathaniel... Twelve natives. She's not the only one who can't quite relax around a big roaring fire, then.

Sae isn't here, and Hazelle feels a bit ashamed of her inward sigh of relief. Sae has been considerably kinder to her since their exchange two weeks ago; she came to Hazelle the other day with some clothes to mend and even quietly apologized, promising that she was the only one who knew about the parachute bombs that shouldn't. Hazelle forgave her but she'll still consider Sae untrustworthy until proven otherwise.

Approaching Alice and Wilbur, Hazelle hears cheers, jeers, and laughter away from the fire. In a show of victory, Vick throws a grubby handball onto the ground and does a little jig while Aiden and some other younger workers demand a rematch. "Go play with them," she says to Rory, the suggestive note in her tone nonnegotiable. He joins the team against Vick.

"One of the workers from Seven donated the ball," Wilbur tells her by way of a greeting. "He's over there by Thom."

"I know Ralph," says Hazelle, catching his eye accidentally and waving to him.

Posy asks, "Can I go play, Momma?" She tugs on Hazelle's hand, as if that will convince her.

"How about you stay by me tonight?" Frankly, Hazelle can't send her six-year-old daughter over to join such an aggressive game. She sees Glenn, who's three years older, among the others, but with two brothers, he's probably used to roughhousing and playing sports whereas Posy isn't. Even when Posy plays with her mindfully gentle brothers, Hazelle is watchful of her little girl.

Posy pouts but nods. "Okay." At her daughter's disappointed tone, Hazelle squeezes her hand three times - each a syllable for _I love you_ \- and Posy's nose crinkles as she smiles and repeats the gesture four times: _I love you, too_.

Hazelle remembers her own father doing that whenever he thought she needed the reminder. It's a parental technique Hazelle has used more generously than Patrick Monalow, who loved her dearly as his only child but wasn't very expressive. Sometimes Gale tried squeezing her hand six times and had to explain, in that adorable voice almost too husky for a child, that it was supposed to mean _I love you, too, Momma_. It never caught on. Her throat suddenly raw, Hazelle gives Posy's hand another comforting squeeze but it's also for herself.

"How have you been?" she asks Alice and Wilbur, sitting down beside them. Posy climbs into her lap.

On the field, Thom Chadwick tackles the district sheriff, Brett McClellan. Posy will definitely stay with her.

"Just fine," answers Wilbur. "I haven't seen you around much unless you're collecting or delivering."

Hazelle shrugs. "I try to keep myself busy."

"Well, I think you need a break as much as the rest of us," says Alice. Hazelle smiles at her, appreciative. They've silently moved past their exchange about Hazelle being Haymitch's housekeeper again. Hazelle is glad; she didn't want her plans to exchange what few friends she has here for one old friend. While she knows Alice's concern for her isn't resolved, her tolerance is a relief.

The bonfire warming her from behind, Hazelle listens as they update her on their livestock, and joins in before they've worn out the topic of their children. Not much really happens out here in Twelve - it's always been like that, Hazelle muses - but parents always have a lot to say about their families.

From a far chair, Nathaniel listens as well, arms crossed and lips quirking fondly. Hazelle is about to include him in the conversation when she realizes that he's likely lost his family. Even if his family is back in Thirteen, Hazelle doesn't want to risk bringing up something too sensitive. Instead, she tries to divert talk of family to talk of construction - a subject he can entertain better than anyone here. She asks, "How's the Town coming along, Nathaniel?"

"You can call me Nathan, you know," he says, chuckling. "You sound like my mother, always calling me by my full name."

Hazelle laughs apologetically. "Oh, I'm sorry! All right, Nathan." With her newfound knowledge of his kin, she searches for any resemblance to Haymitch. They don't quite look alike but there are subtle similarities besides their shared Seam coloring.

Nathan shrugs good-naturedly. "Anyway, it's going well. We've started multiple projects with the new teams."

"The support has definitely sped things along. Who knew districts working together was such a great idea?"

As the adults chuckle, Posy looks around, confused. "It is a good idea, isn't it, Momma?"

"Yes, Posy."

"Is that what Gale's doing, helping other places?"

Hazelle can answer with grace, knowing those around her are as ignorant of her son as Posy. "A little more complicated than that, baby. Gale is helping the person who protects us. It's still helping everybody, though."

"That's good," Posy declares.

"It is," replies Hazelle, twirling a lock of her daughter's hair and holding it under her little nose like a mustache. Posy swats her hand away with a giggle. Because she's turned toward Hazelle, Posy's eyes reflect the flames behind them. Hazelle's breathe catches at the sight, but then Posy turns away and she registers the absurdity of her alarm. Only firewood is burning, Hazelle tells herself, and it's meant to be burnt - unlike clapboard houses or people, however embedded with coal dust either were.

Nathaniel leans forward in his seat. "I bet you're pretty smart, Posy."

"Sure am!" She grins while everyone laughs. Hazelle joins in, amused yet attentive that Posy doesn't start misbehaving with all this attention.

A short, black-haired woman walks over from the other chairs encircling the fire. "Not that you'd know what laughter sounds like anymore, Ode," she calls over her shoulder, finishing an earlier conversation, presumably with Odin Rosenberg, the head carpenter.

"Hi, Dana," says Hazelle as the woman takes a seat next to her. Dana Renner and her crew connected the phone lines to the site. Hazelle met her when she welcomed all of the volunteer workers at the train station.

"The talk over there getting boring?" Wilbur nods toward the bonfire.

Dana sighs, "Well, most of the Capitol volunteers decided not to show - no surprise; they keep to themselves - so it's me and the guys and the Three and Seven groups. We all talk to each other enough already, living or working together. Did you know we may be getting some more rain tonight? I do - because we've brought that up ten times over there. We can't even talk about the weather anymore." She leans back, crossing her legs. "I'm ready for some new company."

"We're probably not much better, gushing over our kids," Hazelle jokes.

Dana shrugs, smiling, her dark eyes settling on Posy. "Not at all a bad topic. It would have bored me to death before the war but I really appreciate family talk now."

They grow livelier as more stories are exchanged, remembered, and either supplemented or contested, and the bigger group around the fire takes interest. They open the circle to Hazelle and the others, who reposition their chairs to join them without getting too close to the bonfire. The volunteers then share their own stories. Hazelle is still amazed whenever she learns about life in other districts, how they were all under the Capitol's control but to various degrees, becoming different people from it. Nathan appears interested as well, asking questions and offering comparisons to life in Twelve.

Dana finishes telling them about the time her toddler nephew followed a Peacekeeper on patrol amid some whooping. They all turn to see those in the handball game have begun to disperse, the game over.

"We won - twice," Vick brags to Hazelle as he, Aiden, and Rory make their way over to the chairs by the fire. Rolling his eyes good-naturedly, Rory pushes him, and Hazelle startles with the urge to save Vick from falling into the flames - but he stumbles several feet from it. Still, she reminds them to be careful, which really means _don't get too close, we've seen enough burning people for a lifetime_. They indulge her with somber nods.

Hazelle then notices the sharp contrast of the fire against the night sky. She's stayed longer than she intended, and it's probably past Posy's bedtime. No wonder Posy has been so quiet in her lap.

With some goodbyes, some polite evasions as to whether she'll return, and a command that Rory and Vick don't stay out too late, Hazelle carries Posy back to the house. They enter as the telephone is in mid-ring. For some reason, Hazelle wonders who it could be. No one comes to mind; her mind is tired.

The call ends and, after a moment, begins again.

As she tries to hustle Posy upstairs, her daughter hops around at the base of the stairwell, suddenly wide awake. "Momma, answer it! It could be Gale!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've removed the song lyrics for each chapter since I felt they didn't really add anything. The chapters are therefore retitled but the story is unchanged. Thanks again to Estoma and Deathmallow!


	9. Blackout

Her breath caught in her throat, Hazelle unlatches the phone and brings it to her ear. When she says, "Hello?" she realizes how odd it is, that she can talk on this telephone anytime - or rather, that she even _owns_ a telephone, that she owns a house _with_ a telephone. She should be so grateful that Gale pulled some strings, having Thirteen send her and the kids away with supplies and an assigned living space.

She remembers this as she waits for a response but it doesn't help in the way she'd like.

"Hey, is everything all right?" His casual tone worsens the severity of her answer to this question.

"Gale." Hazelle grips the phone tighter. She isn't prepared for this. "I - we need to talk."

"I'm assuming that was why I had a bunch of notes waiting on my desk when I got back from the Capitol," her oldest son says, unaware of Hazelle's inability to fully exhale.

"You were in the Capitol? You didn't tell me-" The last time he was in the Capitol, it was winter and he was fighting alongside Katniss in that special unit. She'd almost lost him then.

"Mom, it's just work stuff." Gale sounds like a different man to Hazelle, despite - or because of - how normal he seems. "So what did you need?"

"I - I need to tuck Posy in first. Can you wait a moment?" He says he can, and so Hazelle places the phone on top of the box, pauses to make sure it will stay, and turns to Posy, who has been waiting beside her expectantly. "Let's get you to bed."

"I can't talk to Gale?" Posy frowns, and Hazelle sighs inwardly.

"Maybe next time, baby. It's late." Her heart breaks at her daughter's quiet disappointment but somehow Hazelle just can't handle her daughter and son's pleasantries right now. The need to talk with Gale alone outweighs her guilt toward Posy.

Tugging up the blanket and kissing Posy's brow goodnight is a nice, albeit brief, distraction. Hazelle knows respites aren't meant to last but she wishes they could.

She returns to the telephone. "All right, she's in bed. The boys are at a bonfire."

"A _bonfire_ in District Twelve?"

"It actually went pretty well. I'm still stunned, too," admits Hazelle with a breathy laugh. She mentally scolds herself for stalling but then realizes a slow approach is probably the best way to handle this. She hates that she has to hedge toward her own son like he's some wounded animal - or is he a predator? - that knows the hunt all too well.

"Well, great. Everything's going all right, then?"

"For the most part, it is, yes," Hazelle replies. _Coward_.

"I'm glad. Anyway, your call? I'm sorry I couldn't answer back right away."

"It's fine," she lies. She waited more than a week for a reply, and now that Gale is finally complying, she wishes he would just hang up and never call again. The honesty of that thought catches her by surprise, and she shakes it away, afraid that it will manifest within her like mold. She loves her son.

She loves her son.

Hazelle straightens and, in a single breath, continues, "Gale, I've been trying to reach you because Rory came to me upset about something you told him."

"Told him... what?"

"About," she swallows hard, "about the bombs, Gale. I don't know whether you were going to tell me - or whether you even should - so I just... want to know why you told Rory."

A door closes on the other line. "What did he say to you?" asks Gale, his voice hard.

"Does it matter?" Hazelle counters. " _You_ told your fourteen-year-old brother you'd been involved with the - the parachutes, then shoved all this pressure and responsibility on him, telling him to watch over Katniss-"

"I needed his help, I wasn't trying to scare him-"

"Well, you did - and me as well." She crosses her arms as well as she can while holding the phone.

"Mom, please, just... It wasn't a good idea. I regret what I did but I can't take it back."

"You couldn't think of that before?" she snaps. "There are consequences to everything, Gale. You're smart, you go to the Capitol for work, and yet you can't even figure that out?"

"How about you stop accusing me and just listen? Rory needed to know."

"He's just a boy, and he's _your brother!_ He looks up to you!"

"Well, he shouldn't, then, should he? Ain't my fault that I'm his role model. I obviously shouldn't be."

"You still need to talk to him. He's been through too much to have to carry your burdens as well," says Hazelle. "I raised you better than that."

"You raised me to adapt, too. That's all this is. If I didn't make the decisions I did, the war could have gone on for another month for all we know, and more lives would've been lost."

"Gale." Her voice is quiet yet firm. "Promise me you'll apologize to your brother."

"I will," he promises. "For telling him, anyway."

"Gale, what's happened to you?" Her nose and the corners of her eyes smart. "What did they do? Please, just come home and maybe we can - we can-"

"I'm sorry, Mom, but I can't."

"You and Katniss can work things out, I know it. You're such good friends."

"Not anymore." As Hazelle's heart lurches at that, Gale clears his throat. "But I still needed to know that she was okay. I trusted Rory but he wanted to understand why I couldn't just visit and be friends with her again - and now he does."

"You won't even visit us? Why? Why won't you come home?"

"Because you're there!" he shouts. The silence between them stretches farther than the distance between Two and Twelve. Gale sighs. "Look, Mom, when I took this job... the distance wasn't a drawback. On the phone Rory kept asking when I'd come back, and he saw through my bullshit reasoning so I told him. Right before that, he basically said he wanted to be something _great like me_ one day, and - Mom, please, you need to understand-"

"I'm trying." Her voice, strikingly shrill, cracks, and she squeezes her eyes shut, presses her forehead to the wall beside the phone box.

"I've already disappointed him."

"Baby, please come home," begs Hazelle, her voice loud to her against the wall. The tears welling in her eyes spill down her cheeks. She hasn't cried in so long, not since the war updates reporting that the entire Star Squad 451 had supposedly been killed in action. Her son is alive but now he's breaking her heart.

"I tried to avoid upsetting any of you, especially you. But I didn't want Rory... I'm sorry. I'm so stupid, and I'm sorry." Her hand pressed to her mouth, Hazelle can't reply, can't tell him that it's okay when it's not or that it's not okay but maybe it will be someday. "Just please remember everything I've done was to protect you, including this."

"By killing _children?_ " cries Hazelle. "Gale, that ain't protecting anyone."

Gale is quick to reply. "I didn't know that would happen! That wasn't the bombs' original purpose. It was for other soldiers and medics-"

"Medics like Prim!" she interjects.

"Not _our_ medics, Mom, the Capitol's - the _enemy's_ medics. But nobody on the ground knew that the Capitol children were the initial target so our own soldiers rushed in. Prim got caught in the blast, yeah, I know. I've thought about that every damn day. But I _did not_ plan that. Beetee and I never even cleared them for use."

"But they _would_ have been used against unarmed medics like Prim." It's not a question; they both know the answer.

After long seconds, Gale asks, a bite in his tone, "Am I the only one who saw children die year after year, even outside of the arena, or miners work themselves to death like slaves - or blown to bits?" Hazelle winces at that. "This wasn't the worst we could do to them."

"That doesn't make it okay," Hazelle tells him, begging for him to understand. In a horrified whisper, she adds, "You could be hanged."

That District Thirteen took advantage of Gale's invention doesn't escape her, and suddenly Hazelle resents the time her family spent there but that doesn't quell her shame over her son's participation or her own blindness. How could she not see this coming? All that time Gale spent in Special Weaponry, Hazelle should have guessed that he was inventing the bombs that would end the war. He had to have been making _some_ kind of weapon, however inhumane.

Gale wanted change so desperately, he _fought_ for it. Hazelle saw the fire in his eyes every day while they lived in squalor in the Seam. She was elated when his potential was finally realized among the district officials and rebel leaders. But his compliance with playing the game of war so effectively, so destructively unnerves her. Surely, there was another way but that. Whatever it could have been doesn't matter now.

"It's already been sorted out," Gale assures her. "We won't be executed unless the public finds out and kills us themselves."

Incredulous, Hazelle chokes back a gasp. When did her son ever get into this position? At that thought, somehow Hazelle calms enough to wipe her fingers under her eyelids, knowing the tears have ended. As a parent, it's her natural obligation to protect him. She won't excuse his sins but she won't condemn him to be lynched for them either.

With a glance toward the door, Hazelle says, "Greasy Sae knows about the parachutes, too."

She hears her son sigh a little. "Katniss must have said something. It doesn't seem like her but, well, I'm hardly the judge of that anymore. Anyone else?"

Remembering what Sae had told her, Hazelle shakes her head. "No one that ain't supposed to."

"It's a classified case, and should be kept that way." Gale hesitates. "Even though it was stupid of me to tell anyone, let alone a civilian, I still trust Rory, and I trust you even more. I doubt either of you will start a crisis."

"I won't - I won't say anything to anyone." She sniffs.

"Thank you." Gale pauses before murmuring, "I hate that I made you cry."

Hazelle isn't thinking of exploding parachutes, the children shivering in their nightclothes, or the stunned reporters anymore. "Remember how you'd challenge your father and me after we told you we loved you? You must have found it so boring, I guess, that we'd love you no matter what, or perhaps you just wanted to get a rise out of your father."

Gale chuckles. "He'd get so frustrated."

A half-smile ghosts her lips. "You were so young, not even aware of the Games yet, I think, since the worst thing that could happen that would make us stop loving you was hurting your brothers."

She hears Gale huff in dry understanding. "Has anything changed?"

"Our answer hasn't," Hazelle replies, knowing Gale will understand; she and Rohan, exasperated with their son's endless inquiries, would remind him that they'd be _disappointed_ in him if he ever did something bad but they would still love him.

They are both quiet for another moment until Gale says, "Love you, too." He hangs up before Hazelle does.

The sound of the disconnection is not a comfort to Hazelle - nothing could be right now - but she listens to the dial tone. When she hears the boys come inside, she hangs up the phone as if the conversation has just ended. She meets them in the kitchen.

"Your sister is asleep," she says, "and I'm going back to the bonfire. Both of you should shower before heading to bed." Neither of them argues this. As they head upstairs, Hazelle takes the bottle of liquor off the table and leaves.

Her feet carry her down the road but not all the way to the bonfire.

 

He recognizes the bottle first. Through the dense haze of inebriation, Haymitch reaches for it thinking it's the one he's still working on.

But then he notices the hand, arm, shoulder, neck, face attached to the liquor bottle, and he stills.

It takes Haymitch a few moments to finally understand her presence. When he does, he laughs, "Please, don't tell me you're here for a drink." The last time someone came to him for a drink, all of his liquor was dumped out the next morning. Haymitch would rather not repeat the past.

Hazelle sets the bottle onto the table, within his reach if he had better balance. "No. The opposite, actually. I'm returning this before I guzzle it whole," she explains, and while her tone is frank, her expression is troubled.

"How responsible," Haymitch admires sarcastically. "Shouldn't that have gone to our neighbors?"

Hazelle raises a brow as well as the bottle. "You want me to run this over to them now instead?"

"No, no. I didn't really care whether they got some of it," Haymitch lies. So much for contributing to the community, he thinks with an inward sigh. "Didn't think they had such refined taste."

Most of them actually wouldn't know of anything better, excepting maybe the Capitol workers. The train brings standard liquor from the districts, nearly Hob quality, which is Haymitch's personal preference. Fine Capitol spirits are better suited to be passed around and shared at parties, and he doesn't celebrate much, let alone with company. Within the first month back in Twelve, Haymitch had gone through all the Capitol liquor he took from the hovercraft, drinking away the fucking city dram by dram. Even the hangovers felt masochistically spectacular - but it wasn't celebrating the rebel victory that drove that binge.

"I didn't give it to them," Hazelle says, somewhat awkward and guilty.

"Oh." Haymitch scratches the nape of his neck absently. "Why's that?" She shrugs. "Point taken. Well, you can just bring that over here and leave."

When Hazelle frowns at him, unmoving, Haymitch repeats himself, slower. He's done this countless times for people due to his accent or his slurred speech or both. Even so, he's not very patient. "Bring it _here_ and _leave_."

Instead, Hazelle walks past him and returns the bottle to the cabinet. "You can go the rest of the night without missing this."

"Maybe I've missed it too much," he counters with a laugh, spreading his hands out in casual suggestion. The bottle he's waving in his one hand is heavy, and the room tilts. He returns his arms to resting on the table. "So you're here to confess something, right?"

Hazelle whips her head toward him, eyes wide with alarm. "What?"

Haymitch clicks his tongue wryly. "You didn't come here just to give back a bottle. No one visits me this late at night unless they need to talk about something. Sometimes, I'm even helpful." The kids come to him with their problems whenever they realize it's above them, and he'll dole out drunken advice until they leave, gratified or not. He rolls a finger at Hazelle while taking another drink. "Have at it," he rasps.

But the woman just seems aghast. Perhaps he was too blunt or she figured he wasn't sharp enough to see through this little visit, which is kind of insulting since it's so obvious there is another motive at hand.

Haymitch is about to demand an explanation when Hazelle's composure slips and falls _hard_. While he may be disgustingly drunk, even Haymitch can see her struggle to regain that steady fortitude.

"Are you-?" he starts dumbly, embarrassed for her.

" _Fine_. Yes, I'm fine," Hazelle answers for both of them, brushing her thumb underneath her eye. She tries to stand taller but she looks crooked to Haymitch.

"Whatever." Haymitch rolls his eyes and takes another swig but it's hurried and he coughs. He can't feel the dry burn of this shit much anymore but it's definitely there. "You said you weren't going to drink, and apparently you're fine, so there's nothing I can do for you."

As Hazelle notices his drunken drawl again with a reserved frown, she steps forward. "I'll help you to the couch. Your bed upstairs ain't an option tonight."

"Why?" he asks, swallowing a belch.

"Well, you're not the lightest and I'm not the strongest."

With a withering look, Haymitch clarifies, "Why would you need to help me anywhere?"

"That's what friends do." He can't tell whether she's serious - he'd rather she wasn't.

"Oh, of course," Haymitch snarls, then hastily shuts up and looks away before he can say something damning. Vaguely aware of their conversation that morning, he remembers promising her that he'd try. That may be another thing he has no control over now.

Suddenly, a cool hand touches his forehead, and Haymitch flinches away from it, from... Hazelle, who sighs as she suggests that he should really get some rest.

 _Fuck off_ is what he would say to anyone else if he was sober. But he isn't sober and right now he doesn't care who the hell Hazelle Hawthorne is, so he tells her to fuck off.

Despite his expectations, he isn't slapped across the face. "You're drunk off your ass and you need to sleep," Hazelle tells him.

"Doesn't mean I _can_ , damn it. I ain't ready." He senses the dreadful approach of sleep but he won't yield until he's as numb as possible. Especially tonight, he doesn't want to face those waiting for him to enter that fucking cage of a world whose doors only open when he pries them off himself.

"Haymitch, please." Hazelle sounds desperate - hopeless, really - as she comes around the table to where he sits. She tries to help him out of his chair but he stiffens, becoming deadweight. Even blotto, he cynically doubts that she's really here for him. Something's wrong in her life, and now she wants to intrude on his.

Well, Haymitch muses, she's more than twenty years too late.

"You know what? No." He slams his bottle down so hard even he is surprised it doesn't crack. "You don't get to do this. You don't have _any fucking right_ to control my life when you were dead set on leaving it when I did need you."

Having sprung back from his outburst, Hazelle shakes her head, her brow furrowed. "No, Haymitch, this ain't about that. You just need to lie down so that-" she starts, but he ignores her, his thoughts lagging to his mouth.

"I needed you then, and you just _left!_ All of you did, and I..." He clears his throat, looking away for a moment. When he meets her eyes again, his face is as hard and composed as it can be in its slackened state. "I thought it would be okay because I understood why you had to. I understand even better now. Honestly, I'd have done the same in your place. But that doesn't change the fact that you weren't there when you should have been, to hell with Snow. You can't just pretend whatever you're planning to do - _fix_ me? be my _pal?_ \- will matter at all now that you're finally safe."

Standing beside him, mouth agape, Hazelle stammers in indignity, "If you think you understand my situation so well, then why didn't _you_ try to do anything? You knew I was afraid - we were all afraid we'd make things worse for you, not just for ourselves, and nothing you did gave us much hope to feel otherwise. You can't mope around wondering why I never came back, why Rohan didn't, or Nathan, when you didn't either. Everyone's given up on you, thinking you're a lost cause. I wanted them to be wrong - I hoped they were. But you never gave anyone a chance." She shakes her head, sorrow twisting her features. "I'm _here_ now. I was here even before the Quell, even when it wasn't safe. But you-" She throws up her hands. "I don't even know why I'm saying this; you ain't going to remember anything come morning."

"Then get out," Haymitch rumbles, then roars it at her. "Get the hell _out!_ "

Like that night so many years ago, Hazelle leaves. Her path home is cleaner this time around. There is no innocent blood congealing on the cobblestone of the Town Square, but clean floors and damp grass. Through the open door, a peal of thunder overhead greets her.

After the front door slams shut, Haymitch allows the loneliness to settle around the house and upon him like ashes. The approaching torrents of rain cannot wash it away. He is not content, but very, _very_ relieved; alone may not be ideal but it's safer than repeating the past. For all her brains, he's disappointed Hazelle hasn't accepted that.

While he tries to drink again, remembering and wanting to forget that dark blood dribbling along the cement grooves, his stomach seizes and lurches, and he vomits beside his chair. He groans; most of it is food remains and bile - there's plenty more alcohol to expel, which always burns so much worse coming back up.

Still nauseous, Haymitch stumbles to the bathroom that's thankfully on the first level of the house. Hazelle was right about upstairs not being an option tonight; Haymitch couldn't carry himself up the stairway either. The lights aren't much help, flickering on and off.

He almost vomits again on the way to the bathroom - walking upright certainly doesn't help, though he can barely do so in his condition - but after struggling with the light switch, soon he's kneeling before the toilet. Retching and spitting, it's not difficult for Haymitch to resent himself for being such a waste. With a weak, final dry heave, he flushes the toilet and hopes the worst has passed.

He rises clumsily, hunches over the sink, and switches on the faucet. He cups his hands to fill them with water to wash the sweat and bile off his face.

A blood droplet falls into the flooding valley of his hands, swirling and vanishing amid the running water.

Startled, Haymitch separates his hands with a gasp, which somehow catches in his throat and makes him cough. Before he can look up to see whatever mutt or corpse is looming above him - is he already asleep? - he discovers more upon the bathroom sink: blood blots like rose petals on the porcelain.

Though his thought process is frustratingly slower drunk, Haymitch reaches the conclusion by touching his lips and holding his fingers in front of him. Blood - he's bleeding. In the mirror's reflection, red stains his mouth like wine, which he hasn't drunk in months. He yelps, stepping back, and the sharp sound echoes throughout the house like a poorly-timed joke.

All he can think of are mouth sores from poison and failed antidotes. Haymitch has either been poisoned or turned into Snow but either way, he's as good as dead now.

He looks up to the man in the mirror for help but he's at a loss for words as well. Staring into the mirror man's frightened eyes, Haymitch numbly realizes he hasn't done this sober in a while. He's almost forgotten that they're Seam gray, swallowed by pale yellow scleras veined with red.

The lights flicker again, a half-blink.

The wave of repulsion and panic overwhelms him. Like his earlier, now forgotten thirst, it's impossible to control.

He can't stay here. He needs to leave.

There will be no corpse for the kids to find; they've handled too much, and he wants them to live without any more reminders of the past. They can smile at each other without him. Haymitch must escape to somewhere they can't follow.

He coughs again, and there's more splattered blood, and _he can't stay here_.

He decides to go down the road, past the barren wreckage of the Seam, toward the mines. Nobody is allowed near them due to the concentrated remnants of noxious fumes. He can imagine himself standing amid the smoke, choking on his sins and finally dying. He'll become a man of ashes from the inside out.

Despite plotting his suicide, Haymitch smiles a little at the thought of eternal unconsciousness. It will be what sleep is supposed to be, what it was before he damned himself to constant remorse. He foolishly hopes he'll have peace even though he doesn't deserve it. But whenever he considers what he does deserve for too long, he scares himself into remaining alive and drinking.

Determined to die, Haymitch flings open the door, his mind set on the plan. But he forgets how inebriated he is, his body and limbs not moving as he expects them to. His foot catches on the door and he stumbles out of the door and into the opposite wall. The house goes dark.

There's a sharp pain in his wrist that is replaced by his head smacking off something hard. The sound of the collision follows him into unconsciousness.


	10. Co-Relapse

"Why haven't you left yet, Mom?" asks Rory.

Hazelle pauses raising a mug of tea to her lips. Although she's grown to prefer coffee, she brewed half a pot of tea this morning. If Hazelle wasn't stalling to go to Haymitch's, where there's a surplus of unused sugar and rich coffee grinds, she could have coffee. But she is so she can't. She sighs.

"I'm supposed to revise my schedule with Haymitch today, and I've a feeling he won't be awake for a while." As she sips her tea, Hazelle reads the clock in the kitchen - half past ten. She would be at Haymitch's house by now, late or not.

"No surprise there," Rory mutters, and while Hazelle wants to reprimand him, she doesn't. After all, he's not wrong.

"Finish your ham," she tells Posy, sliding her plate closer toward her.

As Vick rinses his plate in the sink, he asks Hazelle, "It started raining not long after you left for the bonfire again, right?"

"Hm? Oh, yes," she answers, the minty aftertaste biting her tongue, scolding her. But Hazelle isn't certain that she lied to them last night about returning to the bonfire since she doesn't know whether barging into Haymitch's house instead was her subconscious plan all along.

The bonfire wouldn't have been an escape; she wanted away from her life, not to be surrounded by friends, neighbors, and strangers who might try to understand it. She didn't mention Gale to Haymitch, even with the knowledge that he wouldn't remember her words or try to sympathize uselessly. She could have just wandered around the district, the trees and houses and rainfall for company, but she wanted company that would distract her, not listen to her, and apparently a surly, drunken man filled that role well enough - until he ranted about their broken past.

Rory and Vick share a look and snicker, which rouses Hazelle from her thoughts. Posy giggles along with them even though she's just as confused as Hazelle. Rory asks, "You finished that entire bottle?"

"Boys, don't go asking about adults' business," Hazelle warns. Not only would it be rude of them, but they would learn that she didn't return to the bonfire. She raises her brow at them challengingly, and when neither speaks, she finishes her tea and stands. "I should head over now."

"Bring the umbrella!" Posy points to the closet in the foyer. The storm has continued from last night, raindrops spattering against the windows in a much calmer manner than hours before.

Hazelle snorts. "Glad we invested in that, huh?" She caresses Posy's hair, reminds her children to behave, and leaves with the umbrella unfurled above her.

On her way to Haymitch's, she can't help but remember the night before there. Haymitch's behavior was aggravating yet his complaints bothered her the most. His scowl looked more pained than angry, which urged Hazelle to help him. But his drunken shouting drove her away, disillusioned, and now she must return. Working for him has always been her backup, her ostensible intent, and she'll need to resort to it once more.

While he's likely forgotten their fight last night, Hazelle hasn't. They both confessed things that they kept hidden for years to each other, and now she'll have to pretend like it never happened because it kind of _didn't_ for him. She just wants to forget the wasted effort but only Haymitch drank from that bottle. He won't remember, and she honestly wishes otherwise, just so they could finally understand the other. They were almost there yesterday morning when he was sober. It's frustrating that he wasn't last night. Then again, if he was, Hazelle might not have said as much as she did - she might have just returned the bottle of liquor and left.

Her apprehension mounts with each step toward his house. Dawdling only worsens it so she hurries along and comes upon his front door left unlocked. As she crosses into the foyer and shrugs off her coat, she hears from the back of the house low mutterings as well as Katniss' voice, her muffled words soothing. Creeping toward the noises, Hazelle passes the kitchen where several covered baskets sit abandoned on the table and a puddle of vomit lays where she stood beside Haymitch's chair last night. She discovers Katniss crouching beside Peeta, who's cowering against a wall.

Sprawled on the floor behind them is Haymitch. His mouth is dark with what Hazelle realizes is crusted blood.

She gasps, and Katniss glances up at her for barely a second before she returns her attention to Peeta. "You need to come back, Peeta." He tries to look around her at Haymitch but she forcefully turns his chin. "That ain't your fault."

"Real or not real?" Peeta implores shakily. Hazelle notices his blue irises are missing, his pupils dilated even though most of the lights in the house are on.

"Real: Haymitch is hurt. Not real: it was your fault."

"W-was it yours?" There's a flash of white as he bears his teeth but then he shakes his head and twists his lips into a thin, contorted line. "Not real, not real. I'm sorry."

"It's okay. Just come back and _stay with me_."

Slowly, the boy's body relaxes enough that he uncoils from the wall. He whispers something to Katniss, who kisses his sweaty forehead, a gentle reward for overcoming the lapse.

Maybe Gale was right about those two.

When she finally faces Hazelle for the first time in months, Katniss only says, "Help me get Haymitch to the couch."

Peeta hasn't moved much from his spot on the floor, his wan face now concerned for his mentor, rather than deranged. While she and Katniss sling Haymitch's arms around their shoulders, Katniss commands Peeta to call for the doctor. He turns for the study, where the telephone is, then hesitates. "Who... who do I call?"

"Find his contact information in the study." As Peeta leaves to do this with a rapid nod, Katniss adds, "If you can't reach him, run to the site!"

"Why are you having him do that?" asks Hazelle, grunting in effort as they lift Haymitch. Her arms and abdomen burn with the tension. They're usually taut from a life of hunger and exertion but her rather sedentary schedule in Thirteen has softened her some, and so she struggles alongside Katniss. "He's strong enough to carry Haymitch by himself."

"Blood, especially from and all over someone he cares about, is one of his triggers," Katniss explains. "He needs to keep himself occupied, and I know he still wants to help." Katniss must need to occupy herself as well; she continues, "When Haymitch wasn't at breakfast, Peeta and I came here, found him only a few minutes before you came. I figured he was bound to relapse eventually - Haymitch, I mean. But, well, if Peeta had come alone like he usually does..." She shakes her head.

They reach the couch and awkwardly dump Haymitch onto its worn cushions. Whether they are too rough, Hazelle can't tell; Haymitch doesn't react. He's not even snoring. He is breathing, though, the rise and fall of his chest keeping her from panicking.

"Has this happened before?" asks Hazelle, slightly winded.

"No." Katniss frowns down at Haymitch. "Not that I'm aware of, anyway."

"Who's the new doctor?"

Katniss shrugs and tucks a stray lock back into her braid. "All I know about him is that he's from my mother's hospital in Four. Haymitch said he called him yesterday morning."

Hazelle nods as she remembers the phone call that interrupted their conversation. "I hope he's here."

"He should be by now. The train came early this morning." The girl shifts beside her. "I'm glad you're here, Hazelle," she mumbles.

Hazelle's brows tilt in apology. "I know I probably shouldn't be." Katniss leans away from her, considering her anew, a question forming in her gray eyes. Hazelle answers it. "There ain't enough words to tell you how ashamed I feel, Katniss, but I apologize if returning to Twelve caused you any distress. What happened with Gale - well, I can't speak for him. As much as I hope that you two can somehow work everything out, that you can forgive me and my family, I understand if you can't. But I want you to know that I still care about you regardless."

"There's nothing to forgive you for," Katniss assures her earnestly. "I was afraid you didn't know about - what happened so I kind of avoided you and the kids. It would have been too much." After a deep yet quiet breath, she shakes her head, grimacing. "I'm not ready to see him, though. I might be one day but..."

While Hazelle still wants Gale to come home, the mere thought of seeing him anytime soon stirs up a sense of anxiety within her. She can't imagine how Katniss feels. "There's no pressure from me. I like you with or without my son," she jokes.

Katniss offers a weak smile. Before it can falter on its own, Peeta appears in the doorway to the study.

"Doctor Olsen is here but he's at the site. He'll be on his way soon," he says. "He wants us to check that Haymitch ain't bleeding out or breathing weirdly before we hang up."

"He's been breathing fine," Katniss says, "and the blood was dried when we found him. But I'll clean him up to see if there's any more blood." As she wets a rishrag in the kitchen, Peeta retreats back into the study.

Hazelle, who's been standing in the living room, unhelpful, reaches for the towel when Katniss approaches the couch with it. "Let me."

"He ain't your mess to clean up."

Bristling and, annoyingly, blushing, Hazelle counters, "And he's yours?" She nods toward the door Peeta disappeared behind. "Your help is needed elsewhere." Katniss acquiesces a little too easily, leaving Hazelle to gently scrub the blood off a man she thought befriending could save.

 

Whether it's a drunken nap or a blackout, Haymitch always awakens with a flash of panic, ready to kill, to defend. Jolting back into consciousness, he feels the couch cushions beneath him and looks around urgently.

Today the instinct, a remnant of the arena, may have actually saved him; Katniss is nearby, and she looks about ready to kill him.

"Got your feathers in a bunch, Mock-?" He coughs, his throat painfully dry and sore, like he spent the night swallowing woodsmoke. But his tongue tastes like iron and the acrid tang of regurgitated liquor.

He's slapped and then embraced by something small and lean, and the latter action doesn't placate him; he tenses, reaching for a knife that isn't there, until he sees her black braid. "Don't ever do that again," Katniss scolds into his shirt.

Haymitch uses one arm to comfort her and the other to push her off him. Somehow it works. His left wrist burns, and he holds it to his chest, confused. The girl goes back to glaring at him. She's never been a quality caretaker.

"What happened?" he asks, his voice still oddly strained. His entire body feels fatigued and miserable, and a migraine pounds against his brain in a merciless rhythm. Obviously, he's hungover but he can feel an unfamiliar ache that leaves him actually concerned for himself.

Standing above him, Katniss considers him critically. "You relapsed," she says, "and so did Peeta."

Haymitch breathes out a swear as the implications in her cracked voice settle. He can't remember anything, which isn't nearly as alarming as the idea of the boy having an episode. The pain in his wrist and, hell, in his entire being forgotten, he rises from the couch with a stifled groan, asking Katniss whether Peeta is here.

"No, he's finishing the delivery. We told him he should go home but he didn't want anyone to miss their bread orders." They both roll their eyes at this. Of course the boy would insist on helping everyone except himself.

"We?" repeats Haymitch, but with a sinking feeling, he already knows who else is here.

In the kitchen, Hazelle sits at the table mending a shirt. "You're awake," is all she says when she sees him. She tells Katniss, "He should be here any minute. Go see if he needs flagged down."

"Who? Peeta?" Haymitch asks as Katniss passes him and leaves through the front door, her quick pace dizzying him. In his own haste, he didn't realize how lightheaded and cold he feels. He has to blink a few times to right his vision. The house is awfully bright but wavers and blurs like he's still drunk.

Hazelle answers, "No, the doctor."

Haymitch nods only a little, his neck stiff and his head a burning chunk of coal. Doctor Olsen should be here today. If Peeta hurt himself or anyone else, the poor bastard may have a few appointments on his first day in Twelve.

"I finished the laundry for you."

Haymitch stops massaging the tender knot that he discovered atop his head to look at the woman. "Excuse me?"

Hazelle continues to mend. "I finished the laundry - since you didn't. I also mopped the kitchen and cleaned the downstairs bathroom before I started this." She holds up the torn shirt. "I figured you wouldn't mind."

"I thought you were going to wait on housekeeping until we-? Never mind." He rubs his head, muttering, "Feels like I screamed myself hoarse and ran for an entire day with an axe in my head."

"I can't imagine how exhausted you are," she deadpans.

Haymitch chuckles acerbically. "Hey, not my fault your answer to everything is aggressive cleaning."

Glowering, Hazelle replies, "Not unless you count drinking yourself unconscious - that is, after you vomited on the floor and coughed up blood all over the bathroom sink." She tosses him a dishrag that he presumes was used to clean him off, which he promptly drops. "Though really, it was your being found by a boy who's subject to _episodes_ when he's terrified that caused us all a great deal of stress. But it's not your fault." Her voice has gone choked and accusing but thankfully Haymitch can't see any tears welling in her eyes; he'd honestly have no clue what to do if Hazelle started crying in front of him.

Suddenly breathless, Haymitch finds himself gripping the table for support. "I can't remember a damn thing. I didn't-" He shakes his head in disbelief, his breath hitching at the pain that erupts from the action.

A chair groans as it's pushed out, which fucking _hurts_ to hear, and then Hazelle is beside him. He tries to back away, mortified by this show of weakness, even more ashamed of himself. There's pressure on his shoulders, and he looks behind him to see Hazelle coaxing him to sit. He obeys, slouching at the kitchen table like he must have been last night, before everything went to hell.

"You scared the hell out of us," she tells him.

"Is Peeta okay?"

Hazelle pauses, considering him silently for a moment. "He was still a bit shaken up when he left but he... recovered?" Her voice lilts in uncertainty over her word choice. She tries to clarify, "He didn't have a tantrum - or whatever happens. I don't know. He was just shaking and muttering to himself. Katniss coaxed him out of it."

"He didn't hurt himself?"

"No."

"Who's the doctor for, then?" Haymitch asks drily.

"You scared the _hell_ out of us," she repeats. Her brow, while raised in indignity, is also furrowed with worry, and Haymitch finds he's not really angry with her.

"Fucking great," he groans. Coughing up blood or not, he's not looking forward to a doctor coming to tell him things that he already knows yet stubbornly, fearfully ignores.

"Just wait on the couch for him," commands Hazelle. "He's on his way. I'll get you some water."

Haymitch waves her off as he lumbers to the couch. "Don't bother." Despite his protesting raw throat, he doesn't want any more of anyone's help. He settles onto the couch. "I guess we should reschedule that meeting. I'll count today as a full work day but you can go home." Before Hazelle can protest or, worse, comply too readily, he adds, "Tell the girl to leave, too, on your way. Send her to help the boy pass out bread or rescue puppies or something."

There's no sound or movement in the kitchen so he isn't sure whether she interpreted that as thanks as well as an apology like he meant. But then she speaks up, her voice actually apologetic, "It ain't all your fault, either, you know."

"A lot is," Haymitch reminds her, arms folded over his head. Every damn light in his house is on. Hazelle is silent.

He hears the water run and the clang of a cup as she sets it on the table. A moment later, the front door opens and closes.

He doesn't sleep so much as rest after that, and so when he hears the doorbell, he sits up and greets the tall, muscular, bespectacled man in the foyer.

Doctor Antony Olsen walks with a simple cane, not unusual for a man in his early fifties, except his pronounced limp suggests the injury is fairly recent. From his record, Haymitch knows he was a military doctor who defected in District Four.

"Well," the doctor sighs, "I can't say that I'm glad you're among my initial patients, Mister Abernathy." His reedy voice doesn't fit his large frame, though Haymitch doesn't mind; with his dark skin and eyes and his height, the doctor would remind him too much of Chaff Anders if his voice was a deep baritone.

Cringing, Haymitch corrects the doctor, as he did on the phone only yesterday, "Seriously, it's Haymitch - especially now." President Snow pretty much ruined formal addresses for him. The aftertaste of blood ghosts over Haymitch's tongue, and he nearly shudders.

Doctor Olsen remembers this with a nod. He gestures to a chair as if to sit but lugs his case onto it before Haymitch thinks to nod. When he opens the strange case, Haymitch can see rows of medical instruments in packaging. Doctor Olsen snickers at his sharp intake of breath upon noticing the scalpels and syringes. "I hadn't finished unpacking."

Haymitch remarks, "You took your time coming."

With an apologetic smile, the doctor tells him, "The struggle of triaging. Some of the workers at the reconstruction site were quite worse for wear without realizing it. I'm also a little slow for reasons you should find obvious."

"Yeah, you didn't tell me about your leg." No one had, not even Verbena.

"Because I wanted this job," Doctor Olsen says with a dry laugh. "My boss didn't make a point of mentioning it so I omitted it as well."

"No, yeah, I just mean that," Haymitch starts, rolling his eyes at himself, "I could have went to _you_ or something." He already feels like a jackass for causing all this trouble and even interrupting the medical treatment of the workers - just so someone could come and tell him that he's a wreck.

Doctor Olsen waves a hand dismissively. "Don't worry, Haymitch; walking actually helps the pain. The wound was a present from some of those rogue Peacekeepers who revolted a few months ago, and it's healing well enough. I'll be slower than usual for a while but I'm no less of a physician for it and I'm not so proud as to endanger anyone in the meantime. I'll put good use to my car and my cane. There's just no need today."

"Fair enough." Inwardly, Haymitch notes he's a better man than himself, who just hurts the people around him without even meaning to. To refocus the conversation, he asks, "So if you've already determined that this isn't much of an emergency, why even come?"

"Well, from what Peeta told me, I ruled out a tear in the esophagus, which is the worst possible scenario in your situation that wouldn't result in your death before I could call for outer-district help. That doesn't mean you're well, though."

Doctor Olsen runs his simple tests on Haymitch, and Haymitch allows him to because he's not in any shape to hinder someone he hired himself from doing their job and, okay, he's a little afraid that he may be dying. His answers in the interview are honest, reserved, and sometimes uncertain but all he's asked about is physical matters, which are a hell of a lot easier to consider than mental. The doctor doesn't write anything down.

Deeming Haymitch's wrist minorly sprained, Doctor Olsen bandages it and instructs him how to rewrap it after applying ice. Staring at his bruised wrist gradually disappear behind elastic wrapping, Haymitch wonders how badly his drunken self, irrational and violent, reacted to blood in his mouth. He braces against another shudder - or maybe they've been shivers; he _is_ cold - and continues answering questions that don't concern that.

At some point, Haymitch touches his head absently and winces, which alerts Doctor Olsen. After briefly examining the knot on Haymitch's head, Doctor Olsen shines a flashlight in his eyes and has him squeeze his hand. "Ah, you've a slight concussion," he says. "You didn't move around for hours after acquiring it so you actually managed to sleep most of it off." That explains the splitting headache, the fatigue - everything that felt like the worst hangover ever.

"So that's not a concern?"

Doctor Olsen answers, "Shouldn't be if you rest and avoid becoming a regular patient of mine. I brought some painkillers and icepacks with me, which should be enough. You've taken worse falls without serious injury, haven't you?"

His drunken plummet off the stage during the reaping two years ago hasn't been forgotten, then. Haymitch shrugs impassively. "Guess so."

By the end, though Haymitch still feels achy and hungover and apparently concussed, he's not as concerned for himself as he is for Peeta. He just wants to see the kid but he listens to the doctor give his diagnosis.

"Initially, I feared there were varicose veins in your esophagus but you don't exhibit signs of cirrhosis yet. Your mouth was bleeding from a few small veins in your throat bursting due to violent vomiting, capable of healing given time and rest. I shouldn't have to prescribe an antiemetic so long as you avoid any harsh substances that can erode the esophageal lining of your throat: gastric acids, liquor, a regurgitated mix of the two..."

Haymitch holds up his free hand. "I get it."

Doctor Olsen says, "Your jaundice would fade, too. I'm sure you are well acquainted to detoxes but relapsing every time afterward is actually stressing your liver out more. With alcoholic hepatitis likely in the equation now, we can begin a treatment plan but you'd need to swear off drinking for it to be effective."

Haymitch tenses. "I think you've done all you can for today, Antony," he tells the doctor, whose sad, disappointed look in return shows he got his point across.

So his oscillating bouts of sobriety don't help at all. Haymitch bitterly muses to himself that he doesn't need to try anymore, then, and the thought leaves him feeling dejected. He'll either die this way or feebly try to repent for good, only to slip back toward his fate. He can't even fathom recovery, and he has only himself to blame.

They both turn at the small knock, followed by the front door swinging open. Recognizing the pair of gaits that stride into his house, one with the faint clink of a prosthetic, Haymitch is up and hurrying toward them.

Peeta and Katniss wait in the kitchen, the bread baskets empty except for the towels that must have protected the loaves and an umbrella that shielded them from the incessant drizzle. The bottoms of their pants are muddied. Peeta pulled off his shoes in the foyer, and Katniss did the same - probably only out of consideration for Hazelle - so they stand in their socks.

"Are you okay?" Peeta asks.

"Are you?" For Haymitch, that's an infinitely more important question.

"Yes, I'm fine," Peeta replies tiredly. Since the hijacking effects will likely never leave, he recovers quietly and somewhat hastily. "Katniss said you were awake, and I wanted to visit before heading home."

Haymitch half-smiles with genuine pity. "Worn out?"

Katniss crosses her arms. "It's been a long day, thanks to you."

Haymitch meets her scowl icily. "No need for you to state the obvious, sweetheart; my memory ain't shot yet."

"You're heavier than you look, you know. I should have just dumped water on you."

He rolls his eyes at her, then wraps an arm around the boy in a brief embrace. "Worry about yourself, all right?

There's a hint of anger in Peeta's expression when he pulls away and says, "Take your own advice for once."

Looking away, Haymitch claps him on the shoulder and introduces him and the girl to Doctor Olsen. They shake hands, and the doctor doesn't regard them as celebrities, which is a relief. He also treats Haymitch as a contact and today, a patient. Past titles must not matter to him, a good mentality to have in reconstruction.

"Perhaps between the three of us," the doctor says with mock determination, "we can keep your mentor out of trouble."

Haymitch doesn't trust himself to reply so he downs the water that Hazelle set out for him with the few pills. He winces at the stretch of his throat, at the dry, sour taste of the pills, and at himself for ruining what could have been a good day for the others.


	11. Overdue Apologies

The roseate dapples of sky that permeate the dark storm clouds cast the study in a dim yet lovely light, as if everything is beginning to blush. Standing by the door, Hazelle hopefully considers it a promise of an end to all the rain. She supposes nature is trying to recover from the dryness of the previous summer but its effort to revitalize the land that was tinder for the firebombs can still be unforgiving to its residents.

Posy has been afraid of storms before she was even born, stirring restlessly inside Hazelle after every thunderclap. She slept through the mild rainstorm earlier this week that only lasted a few hours into the night, not bothering anyone inside, which means everyone in Twelve nowadays. But the storm that started last night roared all through the night and well into today. There was a power outage, something Hazelle hasn't missed. After her fight with Haymitch, she returned to the house to find her children's bedrooms empty. Since Hazelle wasn't home then to comfort her, Posy went to her brothers but they were also uneasy. They hadn't experienced thunderstorms in almost a year, and the peals of thunder and lightning reminded them too much of explosions and falling fire, so Hazelle found them under the covers of her bed and stayed with them until the storm quieted this morning.

The bombs in Thirteen also sounded like thunder, and Posy was hard to calm while they were all in the bunker, a thunderstorm and a bombing equally frightening to her. To Hazelle, those bombs were different from the firebombs, just loud, rumbling noise that was ultimately harmless since everyone evacuated in time in Thirteen. She felt the same paralyzing fear as the rest of the bunker, that they had nowhere else to escape, no forest haven spared from fire, but nothing transpired from it. The last time she was that afraid, most of her people had been wiped out.

So Hazelle held her children through the night and into the morning, and they held onto her, all of them comforted by the living warmth of each other.

That was before she discovered both Peeta and Haymitch had relapsed. While she tried to enjoy the rainy afternoon playing cards with her children, Hazelle kept remembering how she swept away the evidence of a night that its perpetrator doesn't remember, how Peeta looked so desperate and vulnerable as he begged Katniss for the truth of reality, and how none of them were particularly surprised at these happenings.

Inside the study, Haymitch slouches at his desk. Hazelle assumes the doctor suggested bed rest but he also probably advised a lifestyle change and met the same stubborn refusal. Haymitch doesn't notice her while he turns an envelope over and over in his hands, his attention on some papers lying in front of him. His eyes were confused and not quite focused earlier, and now they scan a piece of paper evenly, still bloodshot but sober. An icepack sweats onto the desk, forgotten.

Whenever Haymitch's face isn't flushed with drink or anger, those boyish freckles resurface, revealing someone Hazelle can recognize. Like this morning, as she washed off his lips, she sees the faint scattering across his nose, interrupted under his eyes by remnants of scar tissue. The faded scars remind Hazelle of a hunting mishap of his years ago. Knowing Katniss, Hazelle assumed they must have been her response to Peeta's capture after the Quell, if not self-inflicted. Haymitch looks worn with them, obviously not like a fifteen-year-old boy with freckles and raccoon claw marks across his nose. But, Hazelle reasons, he hasn't been that boy in a very long time - indeed, ever since he was reaped.

That boy isn't hidden in the man sitting behind the desk, who drunkenly ranted to her last night and lied on the floor unconscious this morning. He's grown, not gone. Hazelle once knew a sapling of a boy but life has gnarled his limbs, thickened and callused his bark - just as it has done to her. They've had to survive away from the other for more than twenty years, and Hazelle was a fool to believe they could brush aside the past and continue a childhood friendship.

She raps her knuckles on the doorjamb, and Haymitch looks up. "Hi," he ventures, setting the envelope down.

"Hi," says Hazelle. "Figured we'd keep the meeting today if you were awake." She let herself in quietly in case he wasn't. "Do you have a moment?"

"Will this only be about housekeeping?" he asks, his voice still a bit ragged.

"No."

Haymitch sighs and waves her in. "Yeah, I have plenty of time. I'm just deciding whether to rewrite some letters that I forgot to send yesterday. See, quite a bit happened since," he quips with mock conspiracy, like she wasn't there, "but I don't want _them_ worrying, too."

"Who are you writing to?" Hazelle asks as she settles in a chair in front of the desk.

"Some of the victors. I haven't contacted them much since we left the Capitol." Haymitch sits back in his seat and crosses his arms a bit gingerly, his left wrist confined in bandages. "Probably best to just send these letters from yesterday that say the reconstruction is coming along and the kids and I are just dandy, huh?"

"That's what they'd want to hear, I'm sure." Hazelle hesitates, then clumsily forces the question between them, " _Are_ you okay - now?"

With a small, dry huff, Haymitch replies, "Doctor said so. Just a few burst throat vessels, a minor concussion, a sprained wrist," at which he holds up his wrapped wrist, "and a hell of a hangover. It could have been worse but it wasn't so spare me any lectures. I already got a subliminal earful from the kids, and I suspect they're coming later with dinner as a veiled checkup."

She tries to smile. "They care about you."

He grunts. "They shouldn't, and neither should you. Stop looking at me like I'm dying." They both stiffen at the silence that last word leaves. "I'm not," says Haymitch, more to himself than to her, but then he scowls at the ceiling before correcting himself, "at the moment. That's what the doctor said so..."

Hazelle nods because she understands and he's practically begging her. "Okay."

"Now," he says, trying not to look relieved, "I'm thinking we continue Saturday being payday but reduce either your daily hours or days a week now that the house is maintainable. Whichever one is up to you, I don't care."

"You choose; it's your house," she says. Already her job has improved with his officially hiring her. A set pay that actually hinges on her performance is all she wants. She'll respect Haymitch as her employer as long as she's actually employed.

Haymitch frowns at her. "Well, it's only fair that you decide."

"I decided to work here again. Shouldn't the rest be up to you?" She never decided her schedule or pay when she worked down in the mines. Her laundry service's schedule was _as soon as possible_ and the pay was _anything, please, or else my children will starve_. Laundering and stocking supplies in Thirteen was a duty expected of her as a refugee, rather than a paid job. When she housekept for Haymitch before the Quell, they were both so bent on avoiding each other that she blindly accepted whatever he paid her. She wasn't in a position to complain but with his wages, she didn't need to anyway - and he obviously didn't keep track of when she came and left.

Shaking his head at her, Haymitch persists. "This ain't supposed to be like how it was. You're here on your own terms," he says, chopping his hand on the desk for emphasis, "and you'll work that way, too, if I have any say in it."

Hazelle hasn't had this kind of agency before, and she knows things are finally changing for the better, but this notion of freedom isn't as exciting as it should be. The rebellion was worth the freedom it gave her children and children across Panem. But for Hazelle and other older folk, it's something that seems to have come too late - or maybe she's just jaded beyond caring for herself in this way. "I couldn't have this spiel before?"

"I wasn't paying enough attention before," Haymitch admits.

"No charity," she reminds him, and he nods. She bites her bottom lip in thought. "When I got to this point the first time, I only needed to come for a few hours every other day. But I kept coming everyday because I wasn't sure when not to."

Haymitch nods again, slower this time. "All right. Noted."

With wry amusement, Hazelle marvels at how they've gotten farther in just these past few weeks than in the months before the Quell last year.

They discuss figures, Haymitch guiding her in what's reasonable. She trusts him enough to accept the new wage without worrying about him swindling her; until now, he's just thrown large sums at her to help the only way he felt he could. He doesn't seem very attached to his fortune - probably because it is blood money.

Afterward, they sit in silence for a moment as raindrops pelt the windows. One of them should apologize.

Hazelle does first. "I'm sorry for what I said, how I acted this morning."

Haymitch just shrugs. "I did deserve it." He picks at the edge of his bandage on his forearm, and Hazelle is about to tell him to leave it be but he says quietly, "Sorry for scaring you."

There's a warmth of forgiveness within her that comes effortlessly.

"Haymitch, I'm not afraid of you." He looks at her doubtfully with those gray eyes, affirming her point but also reminding her of the refined shrewdness in them. They've seen war and the Hunger Games and the green mountains outside and places Hazelle has never been. They've seen killing firsthand. But Hazelle doesn't worry for herself or her family when she remembers all of that. She tells him as much, "You don't scare me unless I think you're hurting."

Haymitch averts his eyes. "Well, I need to apologize, then, don't I?"

"I came here last night when you were blacked out." She had to tell him; it would have been lying not to, disrespecting their newfound, albeit unsteady, trust and this rare vulnerability from Haymitch.

He grimaces. "I don't know what all I said but-"

"You called me out on my bullshit," Hazelle admits. "Even wasted, you could tell I was there because I was upset and needed someone to - I don't know, not to listen, but to distract me. I'd rather busy myself with you than, um, deal with something else."

Rather than asking about her _something else_ , Haymitch asks, brows tilted curiously, "Did I help at all?"

Hazelle shrugs, looking down at her hands in her lap. He doesn't remember that he told her he doesn't get visitors so late at night unless they're there for something from him - from Haymitch, who's always trying to help others when he can't help himself. He also doesn't remember telling her what he thinks about her wanting to reconcile things between them _now that she's finally safe_. Though Hazelle plans to back off from now on if that's what Haymitch wants, she wishes that he'd let someone care for his sake if she - or he himself - can't.

Haymitch mistakes her silence; he groans with dread. "What did I say?"

"Oh, no, it was nothing you could've helped-"

"Hazelle." He's leaning forward on the desk, and Hazelle notices that he brushed his teeth, frosty mint scent replacing what had been a sour, acrid smell of vomit, liquor, and blood-iron on his breath. "Don't excuse me, just tell me."

Her damn throat closes up so she can't reply the way she wants to, to assure him that he alone didn't upset her, that she wouldn't have gone searching for the distraction in him if Gale hadn't called back and wrenched her out of her illusions of the war and her own son's role in it.

She blinks a few times as Haymitch watches her apprehensively, then she feels a warm tear on her arm. With another look at her lap, Hazelle sees the glistening drop on her wrist. _The rain's gotten in_ , she wants to joke but the thought of that brings about memories of her leaky roof in the Seam, of Rohan and then Gale - because Rohan _died_ \- climbing up to repair it and cursing petulantly whenever their clothes got snagged on a nail or the hammer caught their thumbs. None of that will ever happen again so Hazelle chokes out a sob in front of the man who's never really lived so others like herself could.

"Gale," she cries before clasping her hands over her mouth.

Haymitch, who has _his_ hands halfway raised and extended toward her as if unsure whether to comfort her from across the desk, breathes out, his startled concern exchanged for grim sympathy. "I told you?"

"No, Greasy Sae did - though I should've figured you knew, too," Hazelle rasps after swallowing another sob. "He called last night; that's why I came here. I just had to get away. I couldn't think about it anymore. So-" She gestures to him.

"You shouldn't have found out that way," Haymitch says but she shakes her head.

"I'd have found out from Rory, anyway; Gale told _him._ He told his little brother about the bombs and - and Prim, but he couldn't tell me. He had his reasons, it just _hurts_." Hazelle dries her face with her shirt, bending down to hide her exposed stomach. "Damn it, I'm sorry, I shouldn't be-"

"It's okay."

"No, it's not. This is actually the second time I've cried about this to you." Hazelle rolls her eyes at herself, feeling equal parts pathetic and embarrassed.

A bitter smirk twitches at Haymitch's lips. "I'm probably just as much help as the last time, huh?"

She chuckles a little but doesn't reply further. He shouldn't have to help, and she shouldn't rely on these outbursts as the only way to deal with Gale. With a final sniffle, she reminds herself to apprise Rory of Gale's eventual call. Perhaps if her sons can work it out, she can as well.

"Hazelle," Haymitch sighs, "your son ain't evil. Think whatever you want about what he did - you'd probably be right in some respects. But keep in mind he's a kid, and those plans had to be passed up the authority ladder for approval, and nobody stopped them. Hell, they even misused them. Gale ain't innocent but he's also not fully responsible. I'm sure he won't ever forget what happened, either. Trust me; I've done some awful things myself, and I've seen people I trust go too far as well." His eyes flicker down to one of the letters. "Too many people in this country still think we should solve our problems by killing children. We can't blame just one person for that, especially not a boy whose brains were fueled by repressed anger during the revolution he's always wanted, you know?"

Now only teary-eyed, Hazelle nods in thought, then offers him a hesitant smile. "You're right. Thank you, Haymitch."

Haymitch bows with mock humility in his seat. "That's what I'm here for."

"And I've only been annoying you in return," she half-jokes.

"Yeah, you've been a real pain, cleaning my house and feeding me and offering to be my friend and all." He rolls his eyes good-naturedly, and Hazelle breaks into a bigger smile.

"I'm glad you think so," she says. There's a lightness in her now that she isn't sure was there before she even found out about her son. "Well, I should head back."

When Hazelle stands, Haymitch follows, rising from his chair. "I'll walk you home."

"You don't have to," Hazelle tells him in case he's just being courteous but he waves this off. She doesn't mind talking with him more anyway, and she hesitantly hopes that he _does_ want to reconcile after all, despite his drunken rant last night. He's not acting like she should stay out of his life by cheering her up and offering to walk her home. Hazelle decides not to prod him and instead let him figure it out. She knows they need to address what they already, albeit unknowingly for Haymitch, did last night but she'd rather it to be when Haymitch is sober and not concussed or ignoring his own pain to pity her.

Until then, they walk through the house into the entry, where she retrieves her jacket and Haymitch his usual black peacoat.

"Wouldn't your-" Hazelle starts thoughtlessly but she isn't sure whether to refer to the dingy gray waxcoat hanging in the closet as his father's when it hasn't been Colton Abernathy's coat in decades. Haymitch hasn't worn it for years, either, from what Hazelle remembers. "Wouldn't your lighter coat be better? That one fits you about as well as Katniss' jacket does on her." Hazelle smiles fondly, imagining the girl swimming in Artie's old leather jacket. "This one's thinner, too - better for this weather."

Haymitch wordlessly follows her advice though he hesitates before shrugging it on. Hazelle finds herself studying him as she gives him her umbrella. She first met this bright-eyed, graying victor when he was a freckled Seam boy wearing the same coat. They're adults now, of course, and the Seam no longer exists. The war's changed just about everything in District Twelve, even the people. But Hazelle can't deny that this reconciliation of past and present makes Twelve seem more like home again.

Outside, Haymitch collapses her umbrella before it unfurls completely; the storm has died.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been awhile, and I sincerely apologize for that. But I hope you enjoyed this chapter. It's only Hazelle's perspective here, and the next chapter will be from Haymitch's, to mark a change in their relationship and the way the story will develop from now on. Thanks so much to Estoma for her patience and amazing beta skills!


	12. Still Right Here

When Haymitch offered to walk Hazelle home, he hadn't considered the walk back. Hazelle lives farther into the Village than Haymitch so he passes several houses alone. Before, with Hazelle swinging her Thirteen-gray umbrella idly beside him, the other neighbors were peripheral strangers that Hazelle waved to. Now, Haymitch tries to ignore their hard stares as he trudges toward his house, his hands shoved in his coat pockets in a sorry attempt to hide his bandaged wrist.

It may be his old waxcoat drawing the attention, a relic from when he was still considered their own. He wore his father's mining jacket around the Seam since he was nine and fatherless. Hell, he still wore it after he won, even to the Capitol. But then the blood of colliers' sons and daughters that Haymitch couldn't save tainted his own Seam lineage, and he left the coat in a box in his basement with the other old belongings. He disinterred it on the same rush of sentimentality that recovered the pictures. He's older than his father ever was, and he's filled out the coat like his father - and his younger self - hadn't quite been able to. That solemn revelation aside, Haymitch must look like a washed-up fool with his house full of old photos and this part of a uniform he never earned.

He technically wasn't supposed to have it anyway; families of deceased colliers were only awarded the Medal of Valor. But one morning, Haymitch took his father's coat and hid in a trunk as a way to keep his father away from the mines, knowing even as a nine-year-old boy that Colton Abernathy needed more time to recover from a mining explosion weeks before. That day, a canary went silent, his father's crew was trapped in a pocket too dangerous to be recovered, and the wail of the emergency sirens woke Haymitch up. He's claimed the jacket as his own ever since, believing the mines would be less intimidating if he was fortified by its familiar warmth. Courtesy of the fiftieth reaping, the Seam inheritance was in vain, and the Hunger Games prohibited clothes as tokens so it couldn't even protect him there. All it can protect Haymitch from now is rain and chill, though not the cool expressions he can feel cast his way.

The stormy weather has held off, at least. The lingering clouds roll on their way out of the valley of District Twelve. It's about time; there's not enough vegetation near the site to withhold such a flooding.

In the twilight, Haymitch can see that Peeta's lights are on inside his house whereas Katniss' looks dark. He smirks at the implications there. Hopefully the girl will be too busy consoling the boy that they forget to come check on him.

There's no need anyway; he's walking around with fresh air in his lungs and what's now only a mild ache in his head, throat, and wrist. He's fine.

As he enters his house, Haymitch hears the beep of a voicemail ending its recording. He goes into the study to replay the message and groans rather petulantly when he sees the letters addressed to Annie and Johanna still lying on his desk. In his haste to walk Hazelle home, Haymitch didn't consider extending the trip to the train station as well. He listens to the brief message, then calls Beetee back.

"Haymitch, hello," Beetee says after the second ring. "I saw there was a bad storm in Twelve and wanted to know how your crew managed the blackout."

Glancing at the ceiling lights overhead, Haymitch replies, "Fine, considering we're talking right now." So his wasn't the only blackout last night. With all of his lights switched on, he wouldn't have noticed the power outage unless he awoke before it was reconnected.

"Excellent. I'm glad the new workers are doing well. Anyway, the blackout inspired me." Beetee either hasn't noticed or overlooks Haymitch's somewhat raspy voice, in favor of elaborating an invention that can store the electricity in a lightning bolt as energy. "For areas that would benefit more from storm power than solar power!" he explains in that twitchily giddy way he goes about technology. "The wire I made in the arena could withstand Gamemaker-generated lightning. I'm curious to see whether I can harness nature as well."

Haymitch can't help but smirk, impressed by the fellow victor's genius yet all too aware of the aftermath of Beetee's previous creation. Evidently, his ambition has not been stifled by any past atrocities. "Let's keep this on paper before you get too ahead of yourself there," he drawls. "Damn good idea, though."

"Ah, I knew you would appreciate it!"

"Yeah, but I'm a hayseed. Why are you sharing your bright ideas with the likes of me? Need some blind praise from the scientifically undereducated to motivate you?"

"I thought I should propose the installment of this invention to you, as the district's intermediary, to relay to the others."

"You just thought up the thing last night," Haymitch says. Though he doesn't plan to quit his work, Haymitch isn't sure whether word got around about his relapse or, if it did, whether he still has a job as - whatever he is. Nobody sane wants an unstable drunk who still blacks out involved in their district affairs.

"Well, perhaps I want to start running even mere ideas by trusted peers and colleagues before pursuing them further out of impulse." Before the weighty pause overstays its welcome, Beetee says, "I'm glad you at least approve of the idea, Haymitch. Should I find a way to develop it, it'll be a worthy investment for districts like Twelve."

"Aw," Haymitch teases, "and here I was hoping we would get a discount for being your muse."

Laughing along, Beetee replies, "No, no, some of us need to support ourselves as well. We can't all be Thirteen."

"What's that now?"

"Surely, you've noticed how uncharacteristically generous they have been toward the districts, especially Twelve, for a place that so strictly regulated and rationed everything?"

"I did," Haymitch admits, "but I didn't know whether anyone was going to comment. So that _is_ a thing, huh? Trying to get into everyone's good graces after Coin?"

"From what I can see, they want to have a presence in every district. Then, nobody can said that they holed themselves away, seceded from Panem, and survived on their own when they could have. I'm not very keen on being involved in the country's geopolitics anymore but I've warned others to keep an eye on them."

"Yeah, they're probably draining a lot of resources, trying to help everyone. I'm sure the civilians there hate us." Thirteen's foresight on its future political wellbeing is understandable enough but their lack of shortsightedness on themselves in favor of the rest of the country might take its toll soon, further fucking up the overall restoration.

Helping others at the potential expense of themselves - ain't _that_ a pattern around here, Haymitch thinks with rare, albeit wry, introspection. But the thought is cast aside in his mind and replaced with a flurry of ideas for precautions and the like that could prevent Twelve's reliance.

"Haymitch?" Beetee's voice strains a bit with forced casualness.

"What?"

"One last thing, just by the way - I'd appreciate hearing from Katniss and Peeta sometime, if you could pass that along as well."

"Oh, sure. I can give you their phone numbers," he offers, uncertain. Beetee and the kids shared their alliance in the Third Quarter Quell but Haymitch wouldn't quite label them as friends because of it.

"Yes, that would work. Thank you. I haven't kept in touch with the others victors. With the upcoming anniversary and all... some more familiar voices would be welcome."

"Yeah," is all Haymitch says. He hasn't let himself really think about how the reaping day is in two weeks, and he doesn't want to now or else he'll be susceptible to repeating last night. But then he considers how the victor on the other end of the line must feel about the approaching date. Beetee doesn't have much family left from what Haymitch knows about him, which, granted, isn't much. He definitely doesn't have another victor to confide in; other than Wiress, Beetee kept to himself over the years in the Capitol unless it involved the rebellion.

"Well," Beetee says, "I appreciate it. Take care."

"Yeah, you too. Give us a call sometime." He recites the kids' telephone numbers to Beetee before they hang up.

At his desk, Haymitch jots down some of the ideas sparked during the call. He'll have to catch up with the supervisors at the site tomorrow, and at least he'll have something new to offer after today's absence. He already sort of misses helping with Twelve's progress, albeit in his own detached way. He'll have to monitor his drinking again, though. Haymitch hasn't had a drink yet today but he's afraid of what will happen when he inevitably does. Doctor Olsen's little treatment plan echoes in his mind hopelessly; any distraction, any redirection of energy ultimately won't matter unless Haymitch commits full-out.

As he paces the kitchen, contemplating whether to open a bottle or not, there's a short knock at the door as it opens. The boy is carrying his bread basket and the girl, a casserole dish.

"Mixed berry jam: your favorite," Peeta tries earnestly, holding up the basket so Haymitch can see the jar nestled with the fresh biscuits inside. Because he loves them both to death, and he really does like that jam, Haymitch only rolls his eyes and invites them into his kitchen. Thanks to Hazelle, he can provide clean plates and cutlery.

"All right," Haymitch says as he hands out forks, "so now you know for sure that I'm fine, haven't killed myself tumbling down the stairs or anything."

Peeta glares at him. "Haymitch, we're not just going to act like this morning didn't happen. At least humor us and let us be a little concerned."

"Besides," Katniss adds, lower, her eyes flickering toward Peeta, "it helps _us_ , too."

Haymitch can't in good faith argue with that so he appeases them both with a begrudging nod and a muttered, "Appreciated."

The kids accept this silently and go about eating. Haymitch starts into his large helping of wild turkey casserole with increasing relish, realizing just how hungry he is. He hasn't eaten today, and he doubts he ate much once he went on the bender. His stomach was roiling for most of the day but it's been replaced with the aching growls of hunger. His thirst can't be as easily sated. He's drinking water with his dinner, and he can feel his body growing impatient, threatening to throw a tantrum of tremors, spoiled after the overindulgence last night. That was the thing about drinking - even overdoing it isn't enough.

Haymitch suppresses that thought with bread. He's spreading jam on a third biscuit, absently listening to the conversational noise when there's a lull. He looks up at the kids' expectant expressions. "Excuse me?"

"I _said_ ," recounts Peeta, "Greasy Sae stopped us on the way over and asked about you. She told us that she saw Doctor Olsen leave your house but I convinced her you had a meeting with him since you hired him and all."

"Sorry, I'm all out of awards for common sense and decency," Haymitch replies drily. He knows the boy is just trying to ease the whole situation but he feels unappreciative nonetheless. "Mine's none of her business, anyway; she ain't my mother." Though she may have gone to school with his mother and been related to Mollie, he doesn't consider Greasy Sae family. She gave him a job as a boy, and he's indebted to her for that, but that doesn't extend to her knowing all his personal issues. Besides, she nearly fucked up Hazelle's family's reputation, should she have gossiped away like usual. Haymitch was a drunken idiot to trust her, and he should hope the kids have more wits about them sober.

He sees them deflate and his temper melts away. He rubs his temples, saying, "I still feel a little out of it. Not the liveliest company today, I bet."

"You never are," Katniss corrects him, and Haymitch mimics her so she'll rear up for another snarky comment and the boy will smile affectionately, albeit a bit exasperatedly, and both of them will know everything is okay. This happens, and they're all still talking as they clear the table. Haymitch tells the kids about Beetee's new invention, and they promise to call him. Peeta reminds him that he should check in with Doctor Olsen tomorrow, and Haymitch doesn't promise to or assure them that he was already planning on it. He's lied to them enough.

They take the leftover biscuits outside for the geese. As Peeta crumbles one over the feathered mass, he tells Haymitch about the bakery's progress, his enthusiasm over better refrigeration and proof boxes building with every nod and _uh huh_ from Haymitch. Katniss stands astray from them, raining crumbs onto some fuzzy goslings. Haymitch notices her small smile and ducks his head to hide one himself.

They're both so content, and he hopes they feel this way forever.

When Nisskat, the particularly ornery goose named after Katniss, honks impatiently and cranes her neck toward Peeta's hands, he startles and drops the remaining biscuits onto the ground, where they are immediately swarmed.

"My pigs were more patient than this," Peeta remarks. He claps and rubs his hands to shower the last of the crumbs over the geese.

"Nisskat needs her biscuit," Haymitch quips, and the boy groans around a laugh whereas the girl just groans. Smirking, Haymitch cants his head to the side in recollection as he watches the gaggle. "You know, my brother was bit by one of these things once."

This catches the boy's interest right away, as Haymitch's stories always seem to do. With a glance at Katniss, who's been invited into this private moment as well, Peeta prompts, "Oh?"

"Yeah," he continues, "on the way to school. It wanted his drop biscuits but that was our only lunch that week so Cory wasn't sharing. Have you noticed geese have teeth on their tongues? They leave the weirdest bite marks."

"I'm surprised you still let them in your yard after that," says Katniss.

"Nah, no blood drawn. It was just being an animal. There are worse things."

"Like mutts," Peeta chimes in soberly, and Haymitch and Katniss share a look.

"I was thinking more along the lines of people." Haymitch means this to be tongue-in-cheek but Peeta only frowns deeper.

"That reminds me - the anniversary is coming up soon."

"Seventy-fucking-six years too late," Haymitch replies. That's all there should be to say. The lack of a reaping, of a Hunger Games, should be inspiring or commemorating or something, and he does feel desperately relieved but after forty years of dreading a date, of having so much trauma and anxiety attached to a single event, he just wants to get it over with as quietly as possible.

"I hope Plutarch doesn't try anything," mutters Katniss, as if reading his mind.

"Oh, you know there will be something." Haymitch crouches beside a gosling that appears to be limping. Just as he realizes it was merely shaking out its little webbed foot, Nisskat hisses at him and Haymitch holds out his arms indignantly, then stands. "But hopefully he steers all the attention toward Paylor's convention."

"Are you going to that?" asks Peeta, a hopeful note in his voice.

"Hell no. I've spent enough time in the Capitol for a lifetime." Haymitch heads back to the house, and the kids hesitate before following him.

Katniss asks flatly, "So you're going to stay with us, drink, and raise geese forever?"

"That's the plan, sweetheart." He ignores their disappointed silence. It irks him enough that he decides to open a bottle of liquor after all, his first since yesterday, except when he twists off the seal, Peeta lunges at him.

By the time Haymitch reaches for the knife in his pocket, Peeta has wrenched the bottle away. Haymitch and Katniss both watch, stunned, as the boy smashes it on the kitchen floor.

"What are you doing?!" bellows Haymitch. He stops short of tearing him apart in case this is another hijacking episode.

Heaving without exertion, Peeta's eyes are livid and unforgivingly lucid. "I can't believe you. After everything that happened this morning, you're going to drink again."

Haymitch guiltily understands this outburst, at least. He also thought he could wait longer out of fear and shame until the tremors came but maybe he takes smug pleasure in proving the boy and the girl wrong. He's dealt with himself a hell of a lot longer than they have.

"Still here, ain't I? No major harm done," he counters, scowling. "Besides, if I hadn't limited myself for weeks, the relapse wouldn't have amounted to that."

"That's bullshit and you know it! It was only a matter of time before something like that happened. You still endangered us both." Peeta shakes his head, and Haymitch feels himself shrinking back from his outraged expression. "You know, you don't need to stay with us if you're just going to hurt us."

That hits Haymitch hard in the stomach, and distantly he remembers what it felt like to have an ax slash into him with a wet thump.

"Peeta's right," Katniss says, looking very much like she wants to run away. There's the ax tearing sideways, spilling out his intestines.

"Doesn't exactly require a genius to figure it out." Peeta throws his hands up, exasperated. "Tell me, Haymitch: how can I reconcile the man who will listen to me talk about growing up with my mother with the one who will attack me if I _dare_ interrupt his drinking?" He's glaring pointedly at the knife in Haymitch's fist, and Haymitch sheathes it in his pants pocket, his face reddening. "Or the one who puts all his energy into Katniss' trial with the one who abandons her once she gets home?"

There's a glib retort in Haymitch's throat about how he wasn't quite sober during the Mockingjay Trial _or_ during most of his and Peeta's talks but his throat is painfully constricted and his jaw is clenched, as if to cage any of his viciously defensive words.

"Or the man who keeps doing good with the one who ruins it for himself? You're our wise-ass of a mentor - so what do you think is the problem here?" Peeta punctuates this with a shove to Haymitch's chest that he doesn't protest. Katniss doesn't intervene, either, even after an uncharacteristically desperate glance from Haymtich.

Now more than ever does Haymitch feel like a sickly, worthless drunkard trying to earn back the soul he lost twenty-six years ago. Peeta has noticed this failing endeavor, too, but he's not miserable enough to let it fester inside whereas Haymitch obviously can. Sure, the boy is probably doing everything wrong - but this is the first semblance of an intervention Haymitch has ever had, one that is implored of him rather than forced onto him by circumstance. The whole ordeal is so ridiculous and terrifying and new that it makes Haymitch want to laugh without humor or fucking cry, and he's not up for either right now.

As Peeta goes for another push, Haymitch grabs his wrists, his own sprained wrist twinging, and halts him. Both of their hands are trembling, and neither of them can meet the other's eyes.

"You don't know what you're asking of me here, boy," he croaks. Frustration, despair, and betrayal ripple through him like heat waves, what with his sources of hope and love threatening his source of safety and alleviation - or perhaps it's vice versa. Either way, he doubts he could live without one of them.

The remaining victors have lost the majority of their close victor friends. Beetee has to request for the victors to call him, and Annie and Johanna have been unresponsive so far, and who the hell knows how Enobaria is coping. Unlike them, Haymitch still has his two victors. They have him, too, but having him means finding him in various states of self-destruction and tolerating the neglect. Katniss and Peeta are all he has, and he fails them.

"There's going to be times where you can't help us," Peeta reminds him, "and sometimes it'll be because you can't help yourself. At least consider _that_ since that's what you need; you obviously can't take care for your own sake."

Haymitch shoves the kid off him. He asks the girl tersely, "Anything to add?"

Katniss shakes her head.

Haymitch nods and just stands there for a moment, tensed for a fight that isn't coming, before retreating upstairs. As he slams his bedroom door shut behind him, he tries not to ponder whether he forgot to bring a bottle or actively chose to distance himself from the kitchen full of bottles as well as kids who care way too much about him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To any dedicated/new readers, hope you're enjoying the story!


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